The clock hands weep, a silent toll,
As shadows lengthen, claim the soul.
No rush, no chase, no fervent plea,
Just hollow quiet, and only me.
A vacant gaze, a heart subdued,
Where restless thoughts once fiercely brewed.
Now barren calm, a chilling grace,
In empty stillness, find my place.
An island’s shore, a life complete,
Rituals etched, a steady beat.
Yet whimsy dances, light and free,
Blind to where horizons be.
My lodestone guides, a silent call,
Apart I walk, beyond the wall.
Each day’s blur, a dream grown faint,
Till stillness found, a writer’s plaint.
In scents and moments, small and deep,
A hidden pact, the soul to keep.
Returning home, where words reside,
Before the vision starts to hide.
A coolness threads the city — a thin, deliberate sigh.
Pages close with the soft grief of small ceremonies.
I drift through bookshop aisles, fingertips reading other people’s afternoons,
then sit beneath a cafe lamp where steam composes late prayers.
Autumn arranges itself in leaves like quiet decisions;
the sea keeps its slow punctuation, the forest counts light on lichen.
I take short disappearances: a train, a bench, a notebook,
melancholy softened by the hush of ordinary pilgrimage.
If endings are harvests, let me gather them gently —
tea, a finished page, the practice of returning.
Lived through a thousand moons, I learn the grace
of carrying what matters and leaving the rest to fall.
to another, extinguishing
the mountains, extinguishing
the darkness that prays
like a witch in the pits,
and pulling the ghosts
out of the lonely houses
by the hair, look at me,
how agile, what a robust
tuberculosis, what a scythe
in your name! sick transit,
agent of the scum,
i am cheerful as i
sometimes am, and i
give you my hand on fire.
from all parts of my body
comes this joy,
and i go and we go to
my mouth, in time to
be swept away.
what do you want me
to do to keep from laughing.
the flies are sleeping and
i am not asleep for long.
coral of stars, round moon
i am going to dive into you,
air, whilst i fall asleep.
on a tightrope from
void to void, there i am.
i carry dovecotes in my
heart for the every day.
i loosen up roses and nails.
i say words and dreams.
on a tightrope, from
balcony to balcony,
hand in hand with the
unnameable.
oh shadow!
who knows in what corner
of the drink, at what time,
you thought life was wonderful.
you put on your idiot face
and you were happy.
you felt like you loved
the basics. you spoke to
the stones, and took out
of your pocket the splendour
of a saint with which you
look so damn good.
they all said, to one side!
and passed over silently.
since that time you have
been in a bad mood.
you are bothered by people
and even in the dream,
you do not see anything.
you’re thin like the wind
and hear voices with your
heart. you are almost like
your statue.
it is a fear of something,
of anything,
of everything.
we wake up with fear.
fear walks under our skin
and slips through our body
like a snake.
you are fragile like
a sheet of air.
imperfect, mortal daughter of men
fright, the madness of the blind,
the rag of the wind,
the muzzle of cold,
the knife of silence,
the stoning river.
a viper with a child,
the agony of an ox,
a witch on fire,
a stained rose.
eventually,
they all go,
one by one,
like paper boats
in a downpour
towards a drain.
along the gutter
they float,
effortlessly.
until they
disappear.
and you wonder
why they went
like that, and
what you did
so wrong.
𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛
𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎
𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎,
𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘
𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚢
𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜
𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎
𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏
𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕 𝚟𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐
𝚏𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 – 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎
𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 – 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜
𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚔, 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚖𝚢
𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚒𝚝’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 