I will bow down to the time: a woolen ball that tumbles from intermingled threads. At the bottom of the hill, I will read very long words that are not often spoken until Sunday. Then I will rest.
until Sunday
Archives pour la catégorie prosepoem
smiling too much
smiling too much
it is the thought that counts
grounding the ideal
we will say things
too many
behind closed doors
(and the sun continues) in the puddles
The beginning of the end
since the beginning of the day.
The end of the beginning
everything that no longer exists
a trembling beauty
frozen in the puddles
sword of Damocles
To have a feast at arm's length, right there in front of you, the rich colors, the promise of flavors, then raising your eyes and seeing the sword of Damocles. You only have to reach out, but you withdraw your hand, you prefer hunger. the perfection of the world
Seeking every day, in every second, the perfection of the world (one can find it, one day at a time) 