Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

October 08, 2009



This summer I dreamed
and spoke to you in dreams
not really there, leaning towards
the sleeping real you as a seedling
towards a dream sun, that is, the only
one we know of; the spectre of our own
begetting and begot, all we forgot somewhere
in the space between telescope and slide, the one
that holds the cells that write your fate, the light in your
eyes. Too late, I met you. We spoke few words close together
and stitched this lifetime through a dark facade of waiting to see.

Posted by Delire at October 8, 2009 05:50 AM
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