On days I wish, I was a settler in the ghetto of lost words perhaps, like a weaver of folklores coming in and out of verses that surround my home.
though life with living words would be too much of a freedom where deceit by the metaphors that carve the cottons of a poem would bear forcefully on the shadows of my mortal body.
So, I wish anew, life in the far stretched island of silent staccatos where you live beyond the horizon of sunrises and sunsets and moons
but then, such places have no sounds nor seas
. Let us meet halfway then in the summer river of our aching souls the tropic of wounded bodies and sand dunes of simmering subconscious where we live for an eternity into the slum of words and the country of portamento
Love, when you sleep tonight keep the windows of your soul unlocked.