Flirt.

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The echoes of seasons

 I watch as my dreams dissolve into the uncaring world.  I watch the oak gently reaching for the sky, its open palm lay open, fingers outstretched, gathering bronze. Hail autumn, your winds have reached me. They are gentle, fatherly, easing nature into the inevitable change to come. The linden aroma crumbles amidst the seeds of harvest, and so work and toil has to begin. Fittingly, I reap what I've sown. Loneliness, longing, lust. I harvest lessons from the deathly shell of my ego, my soul, my shroud of lies. They've bloomed into an abyss of no margin. The wind rustles my leaves and I'm left feeling its unfairly gentle to me. Of course I'm but a sapling, so it doesn't matter. The water is gentle, the wind caresses, the birds are calm, and I even find a way to smile, but I feel so damn close to looking too deep into the black. My 28th autumn, and I hear all the echoes, its melancholy is gripping. And I find myself as I've always been.
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Gunoi

Mergeam spre groapa de gunoi Eu cu sacii plini, ei cu sacii goi. In plumbul greu ma simteam vioi, Ei trei faceau dragoste in doi. Veneam de la centrala cea pe aburi Eu cu argintii-n buzunar, ei cautau prin lauri. Rupeam cu dintii de un colt de paine al unei ciori... Ei radeau, pe mine pa treceau fiori. Mergeam la groapa cu noroi Ei se scaldau plini, noi ieseam goi. Miroase a tei iar eu plang gunoi... Mai putin gu, mai mult noi.
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Anything you make of it

This... mountain of solitude this... pile of interpretation. Don't we... at least I feel alone when I see you looking at the same picture as me and talking another language. Language... it's powerful indeed. For everything is subjective... Phylosophy is almost useless. You just won't make anything out of what I say, and I have a problem... I just phylosophate for your own goddamn sake. What I make of this world? It just is, along with us. As an insignifiant part of it, with an ego big enough to dream of changing it "for the better"... now I choose to respect. And love, and admire, and be astonished. Why? Because I have to choose a way to express myself, don't I? All this talking... text is irrelevant... meet me and I will show so much more. I'll end with this quirk of grammar we call rhymes... why? Just kill yourself And on the empty blackboard you will be reminded That you forgot twenty books a shelf Filled with your delighted. Just let yoursel...
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