In the midst of the chaos, that is
plain: black and white and black and white
Something asked me of a question I’ve been wondering myself:
What is it that causes the waves to glisten
in the early hours of the ocean
like glitters that do not stick?
How can some days feel like it’s made of honey?
And where can I find the reservoir of manic
to spread thinly on these walls
unable to keep the haunting music within its corners?
Sometimes I close my eyes and see just black and white
black and white, black and white, black and white.
Maybe if I feel myself in the centre of the Pacific
I can get all the answers I don’t need
I’m not looking and no longer do I wish to ask
Right now I’m just listening to the voices the wind brings
From the south of the Past to the eastern Futures
Right now I am staying in place