Hidden Patterns

on the floor was the poet
young women at his side
kissing his fingers
without rest
and the stars above
flooded the night

he kept his mind on the words
with great discipline
creating and re-creating
the hidden patterns
and putting them into
larger constructions,
organizing their strange gifts

the women lay flowers at his toes
and sent their sweet breath towards him
with messages and secrets

he inhaled the chaotic structures
that came from them
and began to cry
transforming the stars,
the kisses
onto pages
in his never ending book
full of questions
and vast pregnant gaps

Impulse

Mood is my body

manifesting itself

through subtle levels

too light to touch

too faint to hold.

The remains of my lost thoughts

fall without making a sound

without leaving a trace.

How do I speak

of harmony

of light

and the process of the rose?

I have come through

twisted from the labyrinth

emerging fully formed

from the tunnels of time.

It is all a colorful pattern

yet fearsome and dark,

a strange loop

where words are arranged

in spiraling currents

a sequence discarding logic

a structure without

a stable frame.

No need here

for a physical body

just a seed

containing the process

and the freedom

that brings it life.

I remain

an unknown mass

a life impulse

a lustful fountain

a fading thought.