the corridor of waiting

we navigate the labyrinth of illusions with great care -
it seems that someone up there is constantly
shifting, re-arranging its dimly lit corridors,

perhaps even modifying the blueprints;
we wait.

we summon images of a passage to a dreamless winter

we imagine an impossible love

or practice ways of unravelling old mysteries

and gaining a measure of clarity…

we hope to find the way out;
but aren’t hope and waiting part of the maze?

isn’t the quest just the universe

deceiving itself?


mending the tear -

bridging the gaping abyss -
putting together what’s been
pulled apart -
the ripping sound
some kind of music -
emancipation of dissonance -
the tear itself
turning into a spiral -
perhaps the beginning
of a wing -

or the tip of 

continent hope.

page from a notebook

dusty memories

newspaper clippings

old photographs

blurred figures in grey

crooked smiles

torn pages like uprooted trees

stories from somebody’s life (whose?)

bare threads of meaning

dreams are spiderwebs

for catching juicy regrets…

I remember 

the soft cheek of a sadness

yet untouched by the frost:

tender, fragrant rose petals

poems not yet written

innocence not yet lost…

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