Wonders, Nightly Wanderer

Wonders, nightly wanderer, wonders are your bread.
Wonders, stowed away in dark pockets, soft and crusty, comforting hands in secret touch.
Wonders you live on, eating the bread of poetry, muttering slices of the world, muffled and distorted around crumbs of darkness.

Wonders, nightly wanderer, your mantle of words, you blanket of sorrow.
Wonders you breathe and in wonder you stare. The darkness murmurs in warm pages of old tales, its eyes closed, never staring back at you, yet piercing your very soul and engraving nightly thoughts of wonder unto it in lines of silent fire.

Riddles of the past

So I had to run to the future
To find answers for the past
Had to leave green paths
To walk towards myself
through the pain of concrete and shards
I had to run to the big city of a million unknown faces
To finds answers inside myself
Had to burn bridges
To rebuild something unknown
from shapes half remembered asleep.

Cursive in Poetry

When the soul speaks in cursive
And the mind in poetry
And words entwining
Like ivy climbing the trees
Embrace of bramble,
Thornbush of thoughts
And images flow
In the bold letters of winter souls.

Be brave, my horse of metaphors,
One more fence of meaning to clear
In the morning prayer of birds
To drink from cobweb pearls
Of wordless wisdom
The meaning of acorns
The silent alphabet of trees.