more fragments

I
The sadness leaks out at times
Like oil from a broken jar
The trickle becomes a stream
The stream will be a flood
The memories I have of us
Escape from their prison at times
And I remember when I’d rather forget…
Tomorrow never came for us in the end
And I want to forget our yesterday.


II
We thought our love could move
the sun, the moon and the stars.
And that it will be constant…
Like the sun, the moon and the stars

But our love can only be as strong
As we ourselves are, it seems

In the end,
I was not strong enough to move
the sun, the moon and the stars.
And you were not constant,
like the sun, the moon or the stars


III
Chasing after the shadows
Looking for what will set me free.
In the strange little places…
In her eyes
In the books
In your touch
In my mind



I wonder why I put up these posts.
I am having that strange feeling again... That drifting, floating, restless feeling... I am not quite sure what I am thinking about. I only know that I am thinking. At least I think I am thinking... the poetry is old, the words are old, the feeling is old... make up a story for me...whoever you are.

The Mad Prophet

I dreamt of the mad prophet ...again. I dreamt of him, and I saw him. I saw him...in a mirror... in my dream. I saw him and I saw his eyes... the fire that burnt in his eyes...his fire and his madness. I saw him and he looked at me. He spoke to me as I looked him. He asked me who I was... if I was the voice in his head. I told him I was a dream, and that he was in my dream. He laughed, and he told me that mad men do not dream. I told him I was not mad..but he replied that he was mad. That he was mad and could not dream. I asked him if he was the prophet I knew. He said that he did not know. That how could he be a prophet... if he did not dream...since he was mad... and mad men did not dream. He spoke to me and laughed at me. He laughed at me because I did not know... that mad men did not dream.