as I touch the wind and try to feel
the moistness beneath your calm.
I look around with empty eyes
as you submerge within the nothingness.
A hint of being, a dreg of hope
is all I lust for.
For the second coming.
I feel you gone and perhaps
this is the end of something
burnt and bred and moulded and shaped
and chiselled and framed and painted
with a thousand raging colours
flooded with passion and intimacy.
O why do I hope? Why do I dream?
For another beginning somewhere?
After an existence with mortal wounds
A drop of peace and honest acceptance,
of whoever I am, whatever I am, a caricature,
incomplete and stupid, lazy and imperfect.
But then, I am scared and fear again
the ending close by and all gone.
It doesnt matter however as some words
can only give, and not expect to receive.
I can only hope to be hypnotised again.
I guess this is my lonely hour
A mind in deja vu
Touching collages of so many songs
and an unusual little story.
Little girl, little girl, where have you been?
I have been to London to look at the Queen.
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