Ceci n’est pas un blog.

My shelter

Filth, filth, fitlh

Why do lovers disappear?

(And where do they go?)

Sitting under the morning sun.

The ending of a song, the way it fades away.

Feeling sentimental

I’m a mess no more

- real proud, that’s for sure –

but why is that, I talk like a mummy.

( Plus I’m a little over reactive right now )

Guess you would know.

Nobody sees me.

Sitting near the river.

( Near the highway, too )

Hush hush

Would you like to come over ?

Tiny pearl of water onto the fresh grass,

Quick moments of blinding light

And, all around me,

The trucks pass by.

Nobody lives right now.

There are tiny forests, on the islands.

At a microcosmic level, I’m glad.

( but maybe I’ve lost myself )

Satisfied upon a brief pleasure,

One second of flattering sun,

One guitar solo at 9 am

A warrior of everyday life

(Stupid crap, I know )

but that’s what I feel, anyway.

Is the absolute gone ?

Nobody knows me that well.

And I’m high, surely.

I just lost a pen which was actually in my hand

But it’s all funny, in the end.

Here, I can sing out loud.

Here, nobody knows I exist.

This is my special retreat.

This is were I can resist life.

(yet, the white butterflies flying around my feet

seem to ignore how cliché they are. )

So many secrets, built over the years,

That I could eventually tell, and feel relieved.

Such a burden of lies, that are mine no more

Such a burden from the past

But I can’t.

I’ld be swallowed, like the rest,

Like the smoke I swallow.

Nobody knows I lie.

And if I died here…

(How many days before they found me?)

(Would the birds have eaten my feet?)

I’m hidden in an exposed space.

And trucks keep passing by.

Nearby, there’s a cement bridge,

Looking freakingly solid from where I stand.

However, if I come closed,

If I come under,

I see pipes trembling underneath

And I fear it might collapse.

So, things are not what they seem

- Huh, revelation, big time –

I know, yet…

My shelter is at the edge of the world.

Nobody loves deserted places.

Nonetheless, around 9:30,

My retreat grows chiller.

The sweet melancholy of things about to end

Invades the air.

Soon, it will be time to go.

I wonder if they’ll see,

If they’ll notice how far away I am.

Like every morning.

Check my eyes in the mirror

- even if I look high, what can I do about it ?-

I lost my pen again.

Here, I’m lonely

But I fear nobody.

Sometimes it’s cold, from where I stand

But no one cares

There’s a ‘what if?’ in the air.

Country girl from the highway,

I’m pastoral like the mountains of Nevada.

But here, I’m not that far,

And I feel connected.

Trucks, trucks, trucks.

Why do lovers disappear?

(And where do they go?)

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