I sprinkle twisted letters and words on the streets, and leave a little critical space for random love words to form … or depart!
It’s then when love becomes mystic,
and roads become theaters to fulfill the vivid visions of emptiness:
“The first thing about love is fear.”
I looked at my home from my home,
and slipped away his looks on me!
Visions were so oblique, and dear:
“Just like when I leave behind the homeland of visions, but at the same time I don’t!
Just like when I “understand” but never realize where my feet need to settle, so I immerse myself in falling …
and become merely a morning radio story that reminds everyone with the warmth of my own “place,” but never my own … it’s then when I would cry flowers on every bokay of suns.”
Would you forgive me my sins when the blue moon overshadows the cypress trees?
I thought I have a place in heaven, my own!!
Should you leave me drifting over the roofs of old houses so I can find a home, that I can call my own? ….
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