Find your heart and slow it down…

Find Your Heart And Slow It Down

I believe I saw an Angel standing in front of the post office, holding a book and a bottle of vodka.

I believe that love, sometimes, really exists.

I believe that, in our time, acting evil is boring and only depressed CEOs practice it.

But all of this makes no difference and the current course of things will remain unchanged: Poetry will become crime chronic and, at the end of the news, anchors will rhyme story of bank robbery and murder over Justin Bieber…

And suicide is a shameful compromise: That is why I don’t believe in those who managed to die.



Je t’aime…

Je T'aime!...

With you, somewhere afar in a forsaken dream, I find myself in a frame of forgotten time and space; in a dungeon where a part of me is forever imprisoned and I often reach to have a glimpse of our existence.

There, you live always afresh with a smile which never fades away from your engraved face and you walk with me in a vista of forgotten past, holding my hands in yours beloved.


The Man In The Picture

The Man In The Picture

We dwell behind a mask, lost in a deceiving portrait of ourselves and unable to perceive that which is deemed real. But my images, in silence, paint the truth about my soul in bold strokes, the most obvious of which some people think as the impossible and treasure in their temples of thoughts forevermore…

Are you the mask of your identity or are you real?



The wax has melted but the dream of flight persists.

I, Icarus, though grounded in my flesh, have one bright section in me where a bird, every starry night when I’m asleep, unfolds its phantom wings and practices.



I claw through icy layers of love and want, through my own peculiar mix of human essence: Memories; harmonies; wannabes; mimicries… But all writhes in dreams that fuel tumults of emotion, simmering under valves which make my heart resound in thuds.

So let me study deep your selfish eyes, to glean the mind that hides behind… But all I see are my unanswered prayers, discounted and jaded, wearing thin.



Memories are made every day, every hour, every minute, every second… Memories of happiness and sadness, like puzzle pieces coming together… But when the puzzle is complete, darkness falls and memories turn into history.

Almost a love thought…

 Almost a love thought...

There is nothing but suffering and loneliness in this world where happiness is a crime…

My past creeps closer, hissing frightening warnings of karma, emptying my soul and drenching me in its impure rain, so that I breathe the truth of my every fault and see days of bliss overwhelmed by sorrow.

What’s left of the day

What's left of the day...

Oceans of waters dancing naked beyond the horizon… No one’s around, only the sun rays dimly reflecting towards the heavenly sky. On this mystic level, Death floats. Conscious of her own majesty, she takes an unknown voyage from a definite point, and bears pleasure in the lie that there is no end, only missing from the material and becoming an anti-dialectic being, an absolute free entity.

Meditation #02

Meditation #02

I am reflecting over the established frame of my mental impermanence, like looking back into the old bridge I have built for my own ego to walk on: Post-conceptual contemplation beyond reality and humanistic aesthetics…

And then I realize that the world begins and ends in memories: What I remember is what I am!


I Loved Someone Once

Memories of unwelcome bits from the past imprison my today in a dungeon of painful yesterdays but (against all despair) I still embrace life and its beauty stretched like a boulevard across the lines of Poetry; for happiness is the reflection of a soft ray of light which unto the senses, not the reason, coheres.