I remember that night.
Crystal clear.
In rage.
Still.

It was a starry night.
Not the one Vincent painted,
but in mid June of twenty eleven.

And the moon?
At its lowest.

I played my pleasant game;
searching for the lost pieces in empty carafes.
Counting down the countless stars.

Neglecting the heart beats behind the rusty bars,
where thousands of gentle souls are being
crushed by the hands of cruelty
and the sound of ruthless whips.

BASTARDS.

I had an odd dream.
Grapes in feud with pomegranate seeds.
Saints hanging on the wall.
Unlike any fairytale.
Even ours.

BANG.

Alas that “tomorrow” arrived.
Under the media storm.
Unwelcome.

I woke up to the horrified headline;
against the morning sky and
its forthcoming light.

The kindest of us all
flew miles and miles away
to the starry night.

Yes, he was gone.
He, the victim of the ink and paper;
of his unspoken mind.

And I,
I mourned that massive loss.
Buried myself
in asylum, in the swamp of
sympathy notes.

Bloody cliché.
Every word beat the desire in silence.

And when, when
will the trees flower?
And the smiles glow and the little fish waltz?
Will we ever soak in the lake
where flesh and blood glitter in freedom?

I await;
fondly;
with big hopes.

– S
Toronto – March 4, 2012