Writing

Books

A kiss is lost in the labyrinth of your lips, but it seeks not to escape, it loves to be lost, a kiss is something that is never found by Death. A kiss awakens the heart from hibernation, and grows wings on Time’s back and sends Time to migration, and Death becomes imagination, and Time flies off into Eternity’s silver seas. Time’s hands are cut by a kiss; they melt away like the waning moon, into veils of mist and memory.

Poem

It is only when the angels open their gilded mouths to yawn, that in the open sky, the sun rises at dawn. And the black clouds of night turn clear as ethereal eyes of gold and ivory-white pass between dream and reality.

Poem

Art is between HE and the Heart. From the divine, unfathomable, unseen sea of God’s soul washes upon the red shores of our heart, under the bridge of our breath, we hear in our heart a call for us to create a piece of God’s Art. Our heart is like a seashell where we can hear the echo of God’s voice whispering in the waves, if only we listen to the song of silence.

Poem

Her gait is an entrance to Heaven. I am lost in the trance of her glance, in the maze of her gaze, and my kiss is lost in the labyrinth of her lips, but like a pink prisoner that seeks no escape, my kiss has found a Heaven in her lips, that has sparked a demon’s fire in my hellish heart; it melts away Time’s hands like the wax white moon, and at the same time makes my heart swoon, like an autumn leaf from a tree, that stands in a fallen forest that is lost in the season of autumn for eternity and has forgotten the breath of Death and his frosty lips, his icy kiss that Love cannot see, that melts the marble moon out of silver symmetry.

Poem

A story awakens a dream from the chrysalis of reality. Storytelling is an art where the soul swims and dives deep in the black sea of dreams, and returns to the white shores of Reality’s pages, where the black footprints are called words and their trail leads you to a palace that leads not outside of you, but right within you, to the red shores of your heart; where the divine unseen sea of God’s soul washes wishful whispers upon it that you can only hear, echoing in the seashell of your soul, when Silence sings. Only then can you enter the gates of poetry and words, for when Silence sings your heart grows wings and Art is the winged treasure that flies from out of your chest, that Death cannot see, and Time cannot touch or catch. Art is the new reality, born out of a chrysalis of a dream, like the soul freed from the crimson chrysalis of the heart from Love’s lips and Death’s kiss, the key that unlocks the treasure of the soul, God’s Art, from your heart, from a temporary display on Earth, to the permanent display in the gallery of the galaxy.

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Time is Death’s Compass:

The sea is made up of Eternity’s tears of twilight,
And the shore made up of Time’s ashes,
For each hours Time’s hands moult to sand,
And grow anew,
They are Death’s compass,
It is your shadow that leads Him to you.

Only the light of love can blind Death,
And make Time grow wings,
For Death cannot see the one without a shadow,
With Love, your black shadow is painted white,
And you become invisible as the blinding beauty
Of the sunlight.