sink into this wild never-ending daylight;
breathlessly run, always expecting to stumble upon a wolf or a fox. A fairy, if only.
dance in the clearing or run after fireflies among the bushes, crazy for love;
never forget the transit of a fallen star;
while the morning moon is crumbling down,
stopping her futile wandering
to shape to my feeling, eventually.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
the firmament
– are you smiling already?
shows a primordial pattern
just see,
– I tend to believe what you say
the stars in the strong hour
observation is an exercise
for steady hearts, eyes
need more solid bodies
over this tiny valley
(I’m reading in your diary)
the moon is slipping unnoticed,
only roots-equipped beings know
what is going on
and where
flames and ice
the transit of a celestial body
fuel
from this perspective
it isn’t worth the trouble
– a domestic injury, at most
So, let’s take this chain of events
(contemplation is a pastime for respectable mademoiselle)
some parsimony is preferable, I guess
metamorphosis is what I’m most afraid of:
memories lend themselves to misinterpretations
easy targets – they become
easy targets
– for moths
# 5
sprout opens
the gathering night
the mysterious source uncovered
(inside: pure memory)
waiting, still
dark figures murmuring
about the weak nature of things,
– listening
travelling light is important
(only a shade of melancholy)
they say
shadowless fingers don’t intertwine,
hardly stay on the right side
the stars
if they’re just masks with empty eyes
(pointing the finger)
who can explain for all that sky
the reason?
# 2
Writing poems is impossible.
They’re negative thoughts condensed on the wall;
Tepid shadows after the fire is gone.
Stillness.
A sea of glass shattered by the anchor.
Poem #1
In a recurring dream,
– stripped of the dark courtesan clothes –
I toy with the idea of killing with my own bare hands
the moonlight.
Here is my collection of micro-fictions. In each post I’ll pencil a weird action, a character in precarious balance on the imagination, a theory soaked in a noxious environment.
It’s all here; the result of my imagination when not insufflated in spite of myself.
The thankless task of forcing the gate to elsewhere is left to the images.
No logic required. Just enjoy.
Laura 🙂
silver cloud wrapping
the lukewarm womb of the earth
like a priceless gift
# 356
equinoctial storm:
father, with my hand in yours
rain is enchanting
# 337
melodies of birds
repeated by the echoes
of mute mountains
# 315
frozen moon observes
sun yielding to sanguine red,
the burning furnace
# 313
The right mood 