Oxygen you.

enraptured!

joy-fully

from your behalf : generousness, concerning. kindfully.

from mine : optimism. bliss-taker.

as in one.
core => shared.
intuiton : deflowered, working at its best.

looking forward to
and never looking back.

hydrangeas in cultivation.

a prayer packed in the midst of us.

give forth.

provide, would you?


I would
truly

swim

in molten lava, for you.



- - - - - - - - - - - - -

untitled

" I despise pineapples
and
I'm keen on broccoli "

I thought.

-

I'll go with option "b"

A void, yet to melt.

a void
evoked, from the inside,
outwards.

in struggle not to collapse
softer breeze, pieces linger.
bad, black, unpure blood being poured over into it

redefining one's self
allegedly to seek the feeling,,,,,
the ownership being yours-to-take

invading;wading

to get to
divert the road, adjusting to one's need. selfishness at its best.
once more
in an opposite direction.
each gesture, saved for later.
indexing every part of them. lusting.

raising from the surface only to provide a sign,
explicitly.
no deductions
but in the inner part : intuition.

detach from it.

and yet, it surpasses any from of logical explanation, comprehension.
where is the line?

flakes of snow shattered and fired impulsively
from this mouth.
to the other.

adhered from the moment contact is made.
forcing him
to render the answer.

in this case : the opposites are distant
the weakness shows
the printers print from the heart, that of unethical pleasure.
the assembler assembles with patience. each piece.
foremeanted. tormented.
Boundary/there's no such word.
I'm


a martyr,
for you.



soo,nest and not exp,ecting
in a cycl,e
improving the welfare of the creature.
the well-raise,d one.
the naive,,,heavy-handed one.

the finest moment : vowels are unprecise - and weakly shot from the upper part of him.
abbreviating, not caring.
reading chapter by chapter, carefully
for he is being watched.

the creature : after kneeled
trust-worthy even from the start-
begging. cornered
for indefinite time.

self-sufficient up to the point in which the void started.


I would starve for you.

Yield inversion

Configured in such a way that thou does neither feel nor crave.

Caress in bloom, device in sleeve.

Submitting the riddle.
Clipping wires.
Twisting nuts.
Consulting, when in doubt.
Enduring (as possible) the blatant sound of metal cutting.

Summoning back the roots.
Somehow.

The task : imposed, as it is.

Set to the transmitter,
who is in charge of delivering the message to thee. Wading.
Seeking the final and most important element.

A warm welcome, from the incidental dwellers, towards the guest.

Eventually, it is generously given to thee, by them.

As moss in rusty pipelines.
It stubbornly re-growths : over and over.

Unbiased to what thou were told, in a beginning,
reviewing the logical aspect of the undertaking,
thou return, muddy-feeted,

And the scientist joyfully welcomes thee.

The most effective acantha-like marrow spurs on thy back.
Gratitude goes to thyself.

A tale of courage and awakening

The tale is strictly based on two-legged beings.

Stepping into the unknown, she clumsily started walking uphill,
Her bare feet dirtying-up with the muddy, slippery grounds below.
And each time, the ground got more watery. She was ankle-deep by now.

Her dress and hair were wet, because it had rained where she came from, and they still had not dried.
Blame the gloomy, cloudy atmosphere of this new place.

She finally got to the end of the hill, and she was looking downwards, at the valley, when she suddenly realized she hadn't brought the inviting-card with herself.

These people, they are quite superfluous, so the card was definitely a must.

She, with a saddened look on her face, turned around, and started running downhill.
She fell, and an old, little man came to her rescue.

She told the story to the man, and the man offered her some help.
He gave her a torn-up map, really ancient, and he said that, if she helped him find the treasure the map revealed,
he would lend her his card. He was invited to this banquet, and yet, he wasn't the banquet-kind-of-man.

She agreed, and so the quest started.

She went to the lake, but the birds had already set off.
Nevertheless, the enchanting, luring sounds awaited her by the woods.
She followed, but there was nothing there.

According to the map, the following step was to meet a troubador (supposedly delivering some sermon) at the mound located near the woods.
She found him, and the troubador adviced her to go to a pit located inside the woods, in the
most dangerous part of it.
She was up to the challenge, and as she left, she decided to ask the man one more question,
and as she returned, to her surprise, the man was substituted by an old, dusty scarecrow, about to break.

She realized everything was a hoax, and this little man was up to something.

She did not know what to do, but her intuition guided her through the woods, and she finally got to the core of it.
She saw the pit, and the little man standing by it.
The little man morphed into a wizard.


The man coldly explained.

But, she wasn't focused. She had just noticed something shine on the far left area of the pit.
She ran, and she grabbed a pair of goggles laying on some rocks.
She put on the goggles, and she boggled as she saw the reality of the place.
She also saw who this fake-wizard really was.

Overwhelmed, she quickly grabbed the sword and the armour and she quickly dumped them into the pit, abolishing every trace of meanness that lingered in the place.
The -as from now to be called- "wizard"
weakly tackled her (as if he lacked of any form of magical power), and yet, she overcame him, by furiously raging against him, and frantically throwing him into the pit.

She ran towards the town, looking forward to showing people what this place was all about.

The expectations would syncopate with the misfortunes of the mistress.

Proned downwards

Proned downwards,
I slide
in-the-form-of-a-snail.

With
the trace
far behind.

On-guard.

Whatever happened to the benefit?

Still.

And , then
salt is poured
All-over-me.
I cringe. I curl. I coil.

Who-would-have-known?

Forlorn I

Within the past few days, she decided it would be nice of him to actually care.

She moved with caution, her silky dress flowed and gently touched every corner, every angle.

She had made up her mind, and thought this was the proper time to sort things out;
or, at the very least, to finally take action. Once and for all.


She wanted
him
to notice
her



It was bound to happen.
And yet, it was never meant to be this way.

Within the course of an hour or so, the woman will disappear.

Not for much, though. She has planned every single move. Every action has been revisited and reviewed.

Nothing could go wrong,
and yet : nothing went right.

Forlorn II

The woman walked through the heating streets.

The sun was shining abruptly, but, strangely enough, one could not feel the warmth… Not today.

Seemingly, nature was on the woman’s side.

But there is one problem :

Nature manages to be on everyone’s side.

Other than that, the day seemed just fine.
One could see she was up-to-something, though.

Her pale skin had never been more pale.
Her hungry eyes were craving for more.
She opened the store. It was empty, except for the store-owner.

“How can I help you?” He asked

“I need one of this, not as expensive, though.”
She bestowed, whilst she pointed her long finger at the corner of the middle stand.

“I happen to have exactly what you are looking for, excuse me –“
He forced a smirk in his face, then proceeded on his way backstore.

The woman sat in a wooden chair, looking straight.
She waited, patiently. She never complained, nor hurried the man.
Time was not a matter to be bothered about.



She kept looking forward.



Finally, the man came out.
“This one is perfect for you. Cheap, yet efficient.”

The man handed it for her to look at.

“This will do”, the woman coldly said, after quickly glancing at the gun, without further examination.
The man had a troubled look in his face, but he didn’t mind her strange acting.
After all, he’d had the strangest customers one could ever have.
And that comes as no surprise:



Anyone that buys a gun is up to something



The woman payed. From that moment, she said nothing; and slowly, but firmly, walked outwards.

Forlorn III

The woman took a long, warm bath; then changed into something less cumbersome.

She went downstairs, towards the living-room.



Gun-in-hand



She stared at her window. The night was shaded a strong yet light blue.
The wind was softly whistling between the trembling trees.
Atop the tress, laid the moon. Shoving light in an equal mode. All around.

Everything was silent , quiet , still , polite , introvert.

Except for the woman’s heart.

Although, if one were to listen closely enough, one would hear a low distant sound.
It sounded like a river… Or water being poured over, for that matter.

The woman headed towards the kitchen, and began making dinner.

But, one would like to wonder

Why would she be making dinner?

And – for who?

But, she needed to make dinner, despite of the events that were to happen that night.
It was, after all, part of the woman’s plan, and she most certainly did not want to mess the plan up.
Everything had to be done exactly the way it was written. Or else, everything simply fails.
She sat in the chair facing the main door, and simply remained there. Arms-crossed. Watching T.V , waiting for the man – to arrive.

Forlorn IV

. . . and then . . . . . . . . . . . .

Right then –

When she was about to put an end to everything-
When she was just ten minutes from shooting a gun she’d just bought earlier that day-
When she was about to make herself notice-
When she was about to unleash her body – her soul-
When her redemption was so very near she could almost taste it-
When everything had been properly done and all there was to do is wait-

It hit her.

It hit her, as hard as it could, right in the heart.

She lowered her head, and began to silently cry.
But she cried unlike ever before. Her deepest part, the softest part of her, slowly became her only part, her self.

She, for almost a second, wasn’t her anymore. She actually began missing the woman she used to be.
Began missing the old times. Began missing her husband, more than anything.

And yet there was plenty of things to be missed.

No more subtle, gentle caresses, she thought.
(As if there ever were)
No more ecstatic, joyful embraces.
(As if there ever were)


“Might as well save the trouble for another day, sir.
You will no longer enjoy the sunshine we enjoyed each morning. No more cups of coffee together, no more burst of bubbles.
Not anymore. They will fade. Because, one of us is going down honey.”
“And frankly—“ she mumbled, “this is no time for the weak. No time to cry.”

She wiped her tears, and slowly r e c o v e r e d.
Then, she fainted, into sleephood

. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .

The sound of a motor woke her up.
It was indeed her husband, parking the car. And in a matter of minutes, (seconds most likely),
he would be entering the house.

No matter what, there’s no turning back now.
This was it. What she had planned for, what she was determined to do. She was prepared.
She grabbed the gun, and loaded it.

The husband inserted the key in the lock

The lock cracked

He opened the door

He saw the woman

The woman slowly lifted her arms

Gun in her hands

Hands shaking, badly

Staring at him, she raised her arms

Inserted the gun in her mouth

And pulled the trigger.

Forlorn V

The man reacted, covering his face in self-defense.
Nonetheless, blood and pieces of what looked like brain fell upon him.

Blood spattered throughout the walks. The man screamed, sickened, disgusted, mortified, scared, but mostly : hopeless.
He cried, and yet it sounded more like a lament. He gasped for air, he stopped breathing, and then, fainted.

. . .
. . .
. . .

Screams-
Mumbling-
Gasps-
Sirens-
Policemen-
Ambulances-

. . .
. . .

Everything the woman had predicted, it had happened. And yet, one would like to think it wasn’t the way it was meant to be.

That there was, in fact, a plan. But not the most accurate one.

That the only way for the man to actually care for her, was if she died.
She, therefore, was determined to pay the ultimate price : d e a t h.

Everything sounds logical, when her state of mind is taken into account.

But, as they say, nothing is perfect;
and, she, certainly, made one slight mistake.

It was never her intention, though.

One could never predict how the man would react.

And that was the one failure.

Pending reply

The girl pretended the act of writing.
When, really, her whole, holy, precious, devoted mind was focused on another objective.
Her resting hand; and, really not that resting, slightly tapped the left corner of her desk.
She, herself, right there, awaited at ease, (a meadowlark).
Within the course of ten minutes or so, the boy got up,
walked by her desk,
and they both shared looks.
Briefly, yet it was enough for her.
Her cheeks immediatly turned a red hue.

--

The lady poured the hot, flowing tea.
From a newly-bought teasmaid, into an old, cracked, baby-blue teacup with some flowery pattern.
This was the lady's favorite cup.
As old and fragile as it was;
Still, she simply felt the need of using it today.

Earlier that day, she went out of her way to search through her old cabinets to find an old dress she really, truly loved.
She tried it on. It was pink, both the upper and lower piece.
To the lady's delight, the dress fitted her like a glove.
And the dress matched perfectly with some shoes she recently bought.
They were pink too. As well as her lipstick. As well as her eye-shade.

She, with the sweetest smile on her face continued setting up the table.
It was sunny outside. The puffy white clouds smiled relentlessly, with the warmthest blue sky one could ever see. The sun was shining as well. It was too good to be true.
Everything was perfect. At least in the woman's head.

--

I dreamed about you yesterday, too.
I ponder
with this question : "why?"

I've done my level best
to keep you outside.
door-locked.

Shall I stop diving into this deep, silky, silver-coated waters?
And, for a change, get to merge into something
a bit
more
hard-core?
Layer by layer,
until you, as a ghost-like being,

(because, as I'm aware of, that's what you are?
Or, better yet, what you portray?
Am I erroneusly chanting nonsense?)

simply vanish.
Into whiteness.
I long for the day.

--

The boy woke up with the least of the willings.

It was Sunday.
He looked through the window of his room and catched a fair glimpse of the faintly, gloomy sun.
He took a hot, quick shower and quickly dressed.

Normally, the boy wears black clothes of carded wool, which have a sheen of spilt food and the like.

He put his boy-cap on his head,
and tucked a woollen scarf around his neck, with the end tucked into his waistcoat.
He, then, put his light-blue socks on, and a pair of torn-up, dirty red converse shoes.

He hoped on his bike, to start delivering newspapers all around.
He was actually good at his job.
Accurate, pure, endeavoring,
tasting the sweetness of the air as he rode through the neighborhood.
It was autumn, and leaves were falling,
in the most divine way.
Brownly-orange, dried-up, light-weighted angels were singing the purest tunes, and dancing downwards, in unison.
A couple of sunrays reflected through the trees and into the grassy grounds.

The boy drove through the girl's house
He gathered some ash-like leftovers from some burning leaves, and drew a heart in the newspaper, which he threw at the house.
The newspaper landed perfectly on the doorstep.
But, how naive of him.
How immature. Thoughtful, at the very least, but still.