It starts with a word or two, a string of thoughts, a random image, and an empty day will be filled with new poetry. It’s raw, it’s wild, it can’t be forced to grow. Some days will remain emtpy, some will bear threefold fruits.
I want to be made from light and song, bring out the stars with my words
I want to know what creation was like, watch the colours pour into life
I want to know what the world was like when it still was what it was meant to be
I want to know, I want to taste the immense nebulae and every deep, dark creek and crease and fold of time and space
I want to write about all the beauty there is, was, was forgotten and reborn
It starts with words and ends with speechlessness, images too bright and pure and folded in themselves, colours the mind can see but our eyes cannot. Colours twisting into shapes taking up more dimensions than paper and brush and ink and reed can hold, more connections to be made than could be soldered on one wooden board with the finest diamond-sharp tips of midnight tongues.
I want to hold strings of words in my hands, pearls of syllables, hard and soft and round, rolling, rolling
I want to remember the faces, lines of laughter telling stories passing me on the street, manifold
I try to write and sing and live all at the same time, fingers tripping over blurry lines
It started with two simple lines, and it became the plea of help of a soul drowning in a torrent of images unleashed on dry ground, barren land not able to soak up all the wonders as fast as they are poured out, the golden song of dust being washed away too quickly before a microscope could be found to examine every speck down to its poetic make-up of crystal genes.
Thoughts born from interstellar clouds, delivered into bare and empty hands.