setting sun, burning dreams, fading youth, passing time:
the golden moment of life becomes prime;
dying light, dimming beam, vanishing dawn, moving tides:
a resurrection of the childish roller coaster ride.
glittering, glittering, glittering stars in the sea
only with a child’s eye which shall be seen.
Written on 3 May 2015
To the glittering fairies in deep beneath.
Am I thinking too much?
Maybe, or should be;
I am told that
“Maybe you are thinking too much sometimes?”
“Oh, am I?”
Maybe.
I cannot get out of the thinking-sea,
I enjoy —
I hate, but I like.
Yet how much does “too much” stand for?
I do not know.
Perhaps I will know some day:
When the wall collapse,
When the bones fall,
When the heart is pressed and squeezed and burst,
By the heavy thinking burden.
Thinking,
This is how a poet is like.
Wind,
On wind, the freezing wind.
Wandering around,
Blowing around.
I am here, in the wind,
Chilling my fingers,
Freezing my nerves,
I am in the wind,
In the wind of thoughts and feelings and everything else.
Tide,
On the tide, the wavy tide.
Swimming back and forth,
Shivering hard.
I am drowned in the tide,
It squeezes my mind,
Wrinkled my skin,
Blind my sight.
Written on 13 November 2013, at the seaside near my home.
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Portrait of Em. 