Can you stop being, in this place, without showing your presence?
I keep asking myself if you will answer my instinctive call;
Surely, I deserve it, after all.
As I made you oscillate with a slight ounce of nonchalance;
But isn’t it the game’s essence? In this blur,
I acquit the bet that your “oversight” is only a subtle act
In order to better transcribe the fire during an imminent reminder.
O masterly quintessence. sensational play
Of appearance that will end up being, it seems …
So let’s lie down not far from this choir;
We will conceive the web of our infinite existences;
Yes, at last ended the misfortune, this is without appeal.
For the intense glory smiles upon who tempts.
The Sèvre will soon rejoin the sanitized Loire.
The sun sets, and from my lips you don’t come out so far.
Chilling on this tender cloud, a fleeting angel.
The warbling piano flying by at the wind’s discretion.
I’m asking myself.
Around, the world comes alive with serenity.
Will I witness a pugnacious plunder?
I wonder and summon.
I ask myself and contravene.
I scarcely dare to examine the heavens;
What if you understand what comes alive in my eyes?
Between the invisible energy that you send me,
The silence that one conceives,
Who gently binds us;
Finally, I believe. Delicious photo-novel.
Then, I’m asking myself …
I fly and I wonder …
If a so sudden belief only smelled sulfur;
It would be suffering without breathing.
I don’t know whether to affirm it
Or stifle it or don’t give a fuck.
Where are you my Love ?
You who were there when I most needed a roof;
You who has always read
In my heart incomparably,
Perceived this sinister state which tears
My being far from appeareance.
Yes, you cared for my soul without running away,
I proclaim it without shining!
Where are you my Love ?
Do you remember our virtuous story?
Do you think about it before you fall asleep,
When comes the glorious night?
Or am I the only victim of my illusions of hope,
Turning round in the depths of purgatory,
Where are you my Love ?
I find you by chance in a short letter,
In a moment that slipped into the past.
I contemplate the pain that’s shortening.
Victim of the torment that drips
These taciturn emotions.
Where are you, my heart?
If the errors make it stronger,
They also seem to be able to kill, sometimes.
I’m dying of fear at home,
Surrounded by a wry decor,
In weightlessness …
Great dismay, or I don’t know, yet.
The mind replays what the heart can’t forget;
Mourning a person who is still alive,
What a strange idea.
It’s disturbing to imagine
Becoming perfect strangers,
I believe that part of me will await you in perpetuity here,
O my love.
Our eyes meet and the match begins.
Under a fine mask of humor, this is a call to love.
The technique consists of a tacit agreement;
A simple strategic and playful exercise
In order to ensure the integrity of
The assent soon signed.
Franc method speculating on a potential relaxation,
Each of us aiming at the impossible
Wondering if it’s understandable.
From sarcasm to orgasm, there is only one step to take;
But clumsiness, however, involves laziness and loneliness;
It’s only at this moment, at the ridiculous recoil,
That the fool understands that the game stops suddenly now.
In the absence of anything else, she feels a little bitterness in biting her lips.
He, disappointed, understands that he’s still a simple student in full dream.
Let us fly from hope, since we have no clear expectation,
Or leave a slight tension in suspension for one last thrill …
Ingenious survival of a blocked show in an in-between
And that ultimately never happened.
Filled with courage,
Big swirl on the fake perch targeted;
Blurred reflection in the broken mirror.
Fill the tank to the top,
Withdrawal without sit down or lie down.
Rain of white handkerchiefs,
No more white mountains;
Boudoir’s life in balance.
No longer enough nightmares.
Diffraction in ten ways;
Said pardon of a thousand saddletree;
No more handkerchiefs,
Rain of mountains,
No more boudoir,
Life of nightmares
And tangled dreams.
The forest is red;
No turning back,
Dry envies in melee
At the crossroads of yesterday.
Caviar, a brilliant hoax,
The squid burns its nectar tuning
His flight ordered free
By the vacuity of the master.
View of the daring mind.
Everything is small, ephemeral.
Too late, like
A horseless rider who
Strives itself without ceasing
To save a princess.
Where are the colors?
Where is the prompter?
From laughter to tears,
From cry to rage.
Feel the melancholy in the melody.
The sky is gray since noon;
The “yes” mutates into “maybe”
Before the poet’s destruction.
From the top of his three-masts, the sailor whistled without bitterness.
In the raging storm, all hope seemed to have drowned
Under the waves. And suddenly, a land stood out in the mist.
Him, sorry, misled, torn, could again deploy himself.
And from there, O possible mirage, he thought he had seen a peaceful shore.
Fear was transformed into waiting and relieved his young age.
The tumult exults the occult insult of an uncultivated sultan.
Is he under the yoke of a frenzy? He examines. As a result,
The continent stretches through his astounded globes. Is he betrayed?
What is this infamy which affects the affability of his being and curses it?
Provisional quest, assiduously derisory.
Exciting foil, atoning weir.
Shouldn’t he have drowned himself in the whirlwind of this torrent?
Has he not known this flooded region as a stammering chick?
A little bit of music to perfect the contours.
His heart opens itself perpetually to her as it’s her own.
It’s his, and he offers it without return on a detour.
But he often dies when she ran down other paths.
Let us join hands by indulging in as much time as possible,
Let us offer to each one by showing all the sorrow available.
O despair at the counter!
What is this burglar
Who mulls his ritornello?
The most beautiful creature of the Lord,
So prodigious, so marvelous,
Returns a black mirror.
What is this fear? Him, he only hates himself.
Sometimes he thinks they are more alike than she thinks;
Or is it his spirit that plays tricks on him, O love?
Time collapses and flows away from the crowd.
He’s just trying to live, and he wants her to be part of it.
Because if she’s gone; how can he find harmony?
In the dark night, he armed himself in a flash, lit by two lampposts which caress him.
His shadow consciously cuts off the desire to choose.
Is this how he knows who to seize
In the hope of a sleeping tenderness?
The face stretches, because it rubs off
On what is extinguished in silence.
Finally, the jewellery case comes alive with a thousand manias.
Boor led to evil who did not ask for so much, and yet
The song of the nightingale is heard.
Why is he there? He does not know.
Although he always knew it, he no longer knows.
Candid’s stupor, which is said to be stupid;
Sincere confession sometimes without flavor,
Because the heart is misled in
Fool seeing love where he didn’t sit.
Great smashing frankly,
Without disillusion, dilettante.