He dreamed of the silver rays of rain
Kissing the pallid thirst of the desert

He dreamed of a hectic, blue wind
Fluttering - with no sails on orange boats

He dreamed of the stars shining alone
Out of the somber dome of night

He dreamed of his imagination
Re-inventing a color to the sea

©LazharBouazzi (December 2, 2017)

My soul
is getting older,
the nights are colder

and the soles
of these soft worn out
doe-skin boots are thinner

every day, way too thin
to keep the thought
of a frozen plot at bay.

time turns and turns again
a breath with hello and goodbye
on your lips so worn with words
there nestles the wanting and need
Oh how it was to be young!
no care in the heart free to run and
run, through the wild grasses and
poppies without a mind for the
machinations of Man, but time
turned and turned again, leaving
you alone with your own escape.
but you heard the beat of drums
and held others hand, and danced.

Writing is a narcissistic practice.

What do we aim to accomplish
when we touch ink to paper?
Mark something down in eternity,
plaster our thoughts upon and into
being so that they may be recognized,
acknowledged.
Sort through them as we would
a scattered mess of notes.

There is nothing inherently wrong with narcissism,
no matter what people may have you believe.
I've once thought so,
cycled around to the present,
and, perhaps, will go full circle multiple times.
It is in our nature.
We think so much about ourselves.

The only constant is our thoughts
is their inconsistency
so we seek to immortalize them while we can.

We are not our thoughts;
we are the sum of everything within us
when our thoughts have settled and left and
we are empty.

Think your thoughts,
write them if you must,
then set them on fire.