You flatter me that much, young lad. You and your daring playfulness. I want to get lost too. For a minute I thought your lips are cursed by a sorcerer, the ancient Magus.
It’s dark, isn’t it? Wild but not free since we get to catch each other’s hands only in verse poetry. How our thoughts can go like some sixth sense, do we bear? Or the telepathic sense that you know me, I know you but only in sacred words, wild guesses, and seasonal waves.
Oh my, sitting and laughing next to you in postmodern times, I revere the intimacy there.
But also, the most treacherous lie. My feigned heart gets sold to metaphors and fluid proses that I might choose “something frivolous and monotonous,” over passion and liberty if only to safeguard what’s valuable to me in the late second-half of an astral memory.
Young lad, I guess things can be blinding when we only choose what we want to see like the music that your hands want to play, and your voice wants to sing among the many albums and other compositions there are ready for ones pick up.
And yet all we can do is wait for that one blooming beauty to fall open for you and me…
But do we know the answer?
I guess we need to listen closely.