I'm that moth drawing orbits around the streetlamp..
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A faint hollow sound announcing my arrival, a storm rustling in the background, fogged windows of an old warehouse ... a metallic empty pipe, rusty and sinuous, I run through.... drawing transparent trails, fast ... and then dropping down. .. smashing on the ground ... drawing a magnificent crystal flower in the air, going away silently .... I'm a water drop.. from a cold rain..
I'm a tear... Cars hissing by the window, a soft light by that streetlamp where lovers never kissed beside, but I could saw them so clearly in the movie of imagination. The bed feels like a trap tonight... sheets feeling rough like the walls of a cardboard box.. where I'm living in.. ready to be delivered, but no one is coming to pick... so many wrong addresses I wrote.. so many times I've bet my heart on the wrong number...
I'm looking for a way to go, watching silly things I never cared before, pretending they are so important now, just in a fake world.. knowing finally I will fall asleep, and wake up again... fighting through those hours of light for reaching again my favorite darkest places.. where I can find thousands friends.. and at the same time feeling so alone.. but happy to leave a sign... Unspoken words...
Listening to a brook made of wind rustling and flowing through the forest on a riverbed made of leaves . The hollow tree seems to be frozen in a painted scream, telling ancient sorrows, when it was struck by lightning. On broken parts, sharp tips are still visible, as if suffering made our wounds harder to be caressed, and deep furrows on the bark, as wrinkles of torment, framing that expression made even more dramatic by branches pointing the sky, as frightened hands. Thin swords of sun pierce the foliage, drawing light in the dust the flowers are spreading in the air, everything is alive around me ... You are alive nearby me, and we're walking together ... Le parole non dette... Ascolto il fruscìo di un fiume di vento che scorre in un letto di foglie attraversando il bosco. L'albero cavo sembra congelato in un urlo pittorico, che racconta antichi dolori, di quando fu colpito da un fulmine. Nelle parti spezzate si scorgono ancora delle punte, come se la sofferenza rendesse le nostre ferite più difficili da carezzare, e solchi profondi nella corteccia, come fossero rughe di tormento, incorniciano quell'espressione resa ancor più drammatica da rami puntati al cielo, come mani spaurite. Sottili spade di sole trafiggono le fronde, disegnando luce nel pulviscolo che i fiori comiciano a diffondere nell'aria, tutto è vivo intorno a me... Tu vivi vicino a me, e camminiamo insieme... |
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