Purple Premonitions

 it's the hour of the purple premonitions,
 the hour the night falls into the space
 between our lips, just before the first kiss.
 we drift, disappear into frozen realms,
 exhausted and astray, only a granite bench to sit on.
 and the choice - never there;
 you - the ultimate King of the invincible North,
 i - almost-a-forever Queen of the moonlit South,
 we follow twisted identities and foreign myths;
 you vanish with the scent of surrendered jasmine,
 and I trace the alphabet of broken times.
 evanescent are the stars as well, the answers,
 the mirrors reflecting the souls of white roses,
 soaked in cool darkness - we escape – 
 from ourselves, from each other.
 it's the hour of the purple premonitions,
 we hide the first 'I love you’ in the colours of fireflies 
 and we wait quietly for the summer …
 @ BT/2020 

A Moment of Weakness …

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
― Pablo Neruda

 * * * * *

To J.


I need to feel that you are real,
you exist.
I want to face your mahogany eyes,
slow agony.
I desire to see you undress me,
to see me glow.
Breaths past trembling,
turning kisses into shadowless sounds.
I demand to know that
you can pull me in close.
I wish I could be able
to run to you.
I crave to shiver
listening to your heart.
And chase the wrinkles
in your smile,
even if it’s wrong,
I want skies in flamingo flames.

And that’s how it will be.
The nights filled
with waves,
passion and more waves,
will glitter together
with the falling on the marble
shirt buttons.
And the ghosts that
create time and distance,
they will asphyxiate
in the lonely blood of
their dark minds,
and I will run into you,
with eyes, hazel- like,
from the candle lights,
with summer on my skin,
with iridescent lips,
with fierce,
drunk with stars love,
to cover us both.

… only in my deep sleep.


© 2013  Broken Sparkles


Vivaldi’s wrathful violins

Be the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.  ~Lord Byron

* * * * *
It’s that time again,
just before the streets and
the souls of walking people adopt
the crepuscular cover of the night
and the mass of watery atoms in the air,
engaged in a savage samba
with the ray- less sky
applauds the winds that
grow adventurous, almost chivalrous.
Leaves are spent under rain drops
and anxious whispers, and hope somehow
rises weary and little by little leaves.
I am left with bloodthirsty icons
of the four season
and in each of them, the sun bows
to Vivaldi’s wrathful violins.
© 2013  Broken Sparkles