And there is what one would dare call fortunate accidents, which drag who would under different circumstances never run into the other to open themselves in an unfathomable manner despite the intrincacies of time & the labyrinthic ways of real trust, which might in time prove itself right by means of how awkward life can be.



A Salamander.

Reckon fire
to the point of oblivion,
before there is flying,
before past is shook,
grasping the moon &
holding it firm,
til excuses & demons
dance & lose themselves
far into the horizon,
thus paths come near,
then walking blindly,
hand in hand & nothing else,
unfolding beauty,
to drop off scalds
of sulphur & salt.
Ignite fire,
waving farewells to heaven,
after regaining colour,
after there are chants from the sea,
nostalgic at the sprouts
of wisdom & dives,
so dreams retaliate
& tear the unforgiveness
from false reality,
which often went broken
from need to believe
in angels of grey,
of anger & pray,
observing the proud,
the lost & the banal.

The salamander.

Fire...Fire coming from the remnants of an act which arises fire itself. Combustion makes what seemed not as such turn into fuel. There is madness at each fire. There is need to deny the causality of life & beget facts that would not usually appear sound. Misunderstanding & mistaking might be king & queen. Thus fire itself is a joker. One may hardly believe how fast reality can burn when the irrefutable slide into scene. Flames of fragmentation provoke a certain impossibility to run from a present rooted into a pair of eyes that cannot close themselves. There is salt in the tears, & sulphur on the ground they cannot put out. Then, the salamander. Of living in flames or putting out fires one has heard. Yet surviving hell is what I believe. A skin of scars that might not show the intensity of phenomena since the eye is faulty & perceives incompletely what should be factually obvious. The loss of limbs is deemed as non-sense when the beating heart is slashed, cracked or fully broken. Such organ acknowledges fire, attempts repelling the infuriating somewhat omnipotence of the advancing burning, & sometimes succumbs. Whether hope remains or not depends on who has endured the occurrence & I shall not dare speak of so. Fire can devastate the largest fields of knowledge or the mightiest pillars of joy, it can turn the skies into molten lead & awake the fraudulence in the desperate belief in 'destiny.' The vision of Earth goes into one of an igniting comet. Nonetheless, the salamander prevails. Either singed or scorched, scalded or burnt, such being can step out the wreckage & re-initiate its path. Not without a difference in motion, direction or even luck, you understand. Melancholy infuses unprompted tones into that about to come. Immortality matters not despite its being within reach. Life itself comes now irregularly vast though at first it could be hard to realise. There is then something singular in the eyes of the salamander. It might be the reflection of the flames, the pride from survival, the fact of being alive or just a starry night. Either way, wisdom awakes & upholds. One can only but wonder if oneself could bear such a blaze, if one could last after it.

Hardly anyone can be a salamander...



The autumn as rust on the metallic surface on a given piece of tin could tell how pale life can appear when oxide comes into action.
The autumn over a red blood sky could tell how close the end of the status-quo is since anger chooses such colour to manifest itself due to angry causality [I do not believe in destiny]
The autumn in the trees marks a gradual kind of change.
Yet, the autumn in my head infers none of those shades for it has life itself.
Just look at how it springs around my face if you do not believe.



I just found out, I know by now, I could simply swear this ain't no lie, that I won't............................



A demon of black slammed the door & sat by the window. There was no need to lock the door, but it acknowledges cowardice. Memories of running up the stairs & pulling up the bedsheets are shown to just get its point across. Cracking & ghost laughters. There was never any daring looking under the bed. A demon of black still pays visits just to viciously grin. It sits by the window & at times looks at the moon as if it tried to make its gloam musky.
A demon of red disguised itself as love for life. The lights in the sky, both moon & stars, were acridly ignored for the love-infused made minutiae as tiny as the rest. One thought of oneself & none else. The walks presented themselves as gifts of god. Beliefs of acquiescence of oneself & redemption blurred what is & what might be. A demon of red disguised as passion. But it finally ended up in lust, & not indeed for life.
A demon of bleu which took the seas away. Ten years were said to have to pass by before the sand could be sensed by the skin. Whales never were. Let alone any thought of weird fishes. Yet monsters commanded the currents & hid the sun. A demon of bleu fused water with malaise.
A demon of white who blinded me day & night...