I jumped into the river

Dreams of going far, accompanied by whom and what one held dear in life, guided by heavenly birds and stars engulfed by a grinning moon. Never had lyrics tagged music so meticulously on any given day. A mesmerising rhythm shrouding the boom about to come. An outburst of instruments which rather assemble than tearing - drums depicting a march toward an otherwordly river, bass notes splashing like an oar against water, whale chanting evoked by a guitar… There is indeed an arduous trip within the song that may evoke all kind of memory. A journey through past invoking the tasty unpredictability of future in the form of a perhaps occurring present. A piece which should be used at the crossroads of decision.

-This unprecedented event was quite unexpected as well. There was a bow that made her say, "he is crazy." The piano lines marked the rise of a summit on a ridged Sunday. Faulty singing was all around. I could sense my voice holding hands with his, though. I could tell my heart beating thirty times thirty faster than throughout the rest of the night. I smiled. There were tears of joy that blurred not my sight. There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt.

The inevitability of death ought to make such matter easier to digest.

A thought on leaves

At times one's eyes devour swinging leaves
and long for a place where you could simply
sit in the sun to close them up and dream.

Perhaps the tarmac road before those eyes
could take you as far as where the grim sun
you see at dusk hides itself from bashful thoughts.

Not even an oaken liver might stand the woe
this puny piece of longing can rest upon
one's head since leaves can be so treacherous.

Simply stand behind a greasy window in a building
which is taller than any sequoia times two
thus the mesmerising effect fades away in a brink.

In line red plans of proud poems may lie
for a spot in a well-lit piece of land you shall
find to squeeze out the truth trapped in matter.

What if, you wonder what if the eyes and leaves were spectres
loaned to reality by the son of Faust who has
evidently avenged the crumby fate which awaits mankind.

It is a quite weird vision this vision of paper
because of the magenta sky no one stares at
by means of jocular heavens and urchin-like flames.

Sometimes one's eyes devour the grinning face
of one whose waves sink you into a sea
of evergreen leaves made to comfort unrelenting fledgelings.