The night sings,
through the foggy glow of streetlamps.
The lethargy of emotions floats
in the street’s dark alley.
She came to take away the questions
never spoken,
and now I think of myself,
of the world,
of those who cannot sleep
in this nocturne time.
It would be easier to rise above
and cast soothing words.
Much harder to endure
like a thought shut in a tin
that escapes at last
when water appears.
I meant well,
Yet it slipped away from human logic.
That is why on many nights
I tear out hours, minutes,
to write what I feel.
Autumn is in the air.
Morning light reveals
golden-green shades,
slowly entering red.
In memory glows the smile
of summer landscapes,
of heat,
of promises unfulfilled
that fade with the light.
Today, everything falls into thought
like gossamer on ploughed ground.
So much beauty there is.
How could I live
without metaphors?
To call things by their names,
not to drown in longings,
not to color them,
to make shapes less painful?
Autumn has come.
I float between breaths.
I don’t know what will come.
I only know I write
in the silence of this night,
in search of lost time
more precious than sleep,
than stillness,
than a brief dream.
