entrance

the threshold of thoughts.
purple has left,
memories start to change.

let’s bring out the mourn
and take advantage of the sun,
of the showers.

let’s hope someone survives
the heatstroke which implies
walking unprotected
walking barefoot.

the cruellest month

where your plans crumble.
where music feels numb.
where muscles lose fiber.

it’s here
when i wish
my father was still around
to tell me:
‘no, you shouldn’t play
that chord like that’.

but in april
he was never around.
particularly in april.

here’s where you wonder
about the future
and whatever lies ahead.

or not.
it’s all so
unclear.

my father had watery eyes.
and a squeaky laughter.
he grew
a healthy mustache.

in april
he was never around.
and that’s the pre-apocalyptic sign
my grandfather looked for
in this month.

it whispers

and now march.
it reaches and struggles
to get a hold of your hand.

it whispers,
makes the sounds
of a dying light,
of the thousand hopes
we never fulfilled.

it wants to leave
the door open
for the tremendous thunder
of whatever there is to come.

late february

who’s up for the spare light?
who’s up for some spare light
in this dusty february evening?

the feel of the fire,
waiting to be taken
by those idle hands.
the gaze that tells us
we should be willing to satisfy
our every need.

all that looks so tired
in this dusty, crowded
and restless february evening.

january

when in january
ask yourself
if

this
is the
shape of things

you’re really trying
to draw
or

it’s
just the
hope of new

beginings. the false hope,
a mirage,
lost.