Fugitive of Aether
I escaped from my prison,leaving my enemies behind.My eyes see things unseenas Forms begin to shine.Enter the Sages of many eyes,who are what they're not.They examine me by the hundredsand with their claws untie me like the Gordian Knot.They pierce my sternum,extracting a wailing Self most pale.They resent it, take pity,then place my soul on a golden scale,and pluck a feather from my winged Conscience—the stoic voice from within,the truest friend that is Me.I am judged; it's still too thin.And as if being stripped from my lover,I scream. I resist and cryas I'm dragged back to the beginning.I've returned to my cell, ready for the next try.
Playing Undercover
Playing undercover, hand in hand,we just discovered a new land.I'm just a boy that loves another boy.Spare him! Let him be!Don't take away our joy…Lords of my body they think to be,but I wish to prove them wrong.Away from that first lightI can only live for so long.Time is a monster;it devours its own children.Empty heart, empty bed—love is just a forsaken landwhere tears were shed.I'm just a man that loved another man.How could you do this to me?How can I be so unlucky?Eternal turmoil of torment—Francesca, I finally understand you.Betrayed by the love of my mother,there is such a thing as to love too much.For you I wept, and wept for no other,but I was told to hush…
Tranquil Turmoil
In a warm day of April,the pine trees sway their branches at noon.I listen intently to the whispers of the breezeup on the slope, and can't help but wonder…What lies beyond the hills?The meadows and a bridge.And what lies beyond that?The ocean, perhaps. And what after?My imagination sails away.It's a habit of mine…So was Alexander's on his way to Samarkand,struck since his youth by Pothos' arrow,unable to appease his insatiable wanderlust.What pity, what longing! To Babylonhe walked back disappointed,coerced by his men's homesickness;he was deprived from seeing the Ganges.They yearned for what was known,their land, their wives and homes.He had no such tethers.I take my first step full of melancholic expectation,a bittersweet nectar circulating my veins.It stirs when I gaze at the vast ocean,shaded in wine and indigo—the horizon is a solid wall under the sky,the ripples turned golden by the fading sunset.The world turns old. All is already a distant memory.It's paradoxical in nature, this feeling,to be nostalgic of the future, to yearnfor what is yet to come, what is yet to be felt.
In Saecula Saeculorum
Under the night sky—a bottomless ocean, upside down infinity—we swoon and ponderon Substance and Divinity,filling our tongues with wordsand wonders bigger than life,their truest essence eluding our strife.What is Eternitybut the smallest of concepts in our mind.To this fact we're blind.
Is It That We Drink from the Lethe?
We are quick to forget our own histories,despite writing them down,either as way of atonementor as a reference for our future selves.Beacons of reason they are,achieved through experience;lighthouses of guidance ignited by suffering,a host of heralds triggered by our naïveté.We are prone to repeat our mistakes,too fond of the wolf's fangs,too kind to the vicious sword,too used to the sting of the wasp.I often wonder... Is it on purpose?
What Ganymede Told His Master After One Thousand Years in Olympus
"It's not lack of love what hurts the most,but the crippling need of it, imposedby the paradigms of cultureseldom unchallenged.Once you realize this,you'll soar, high and boundless,with both wings unhindered."
Picture
When we strolled around by that narrow road(the one flanked by rocks and waves)I slowed down and gave you spaceso I could admire you from a fair distance;and couldn't help myself in that instant,so I captured you in the moment—but not all of you,just your arm outstretched.Your beautiful arm...Bronzed and smooth, sunkissedagainst the golden threads of thin hair;the lines of your muscles, toned and flexed;your wrist adorned by rosewood beads;and your fingers—straight petals that stemfrom the calyx of your hand wide open—penetratemy chest as if to pluck the stringsof a lyre within me, like Apollo exaltedby this my ardent devotion.And thus tingling sensations spread outfrom my sternum, shimmering sprites of delight;from desire to admiration, then longing,now nothingness.Isn't it blissful, yet sad,how much can a single picture evoke?
The Hours Fly By, Like Halcyons by the Shore
As we sail in endless conversations,I see you playing with a loose strandof your windswept hair.There's nothing else in the worldthat would bring me more pleasure or joythan to do the same.So I reach out and graba golden lock for myself.I eventually ask,"May I smell your hair?"You don't say no.I lean over and take it all in.Your scent fills my lungs,multiplies my dopamine.And without warning, I lean downand kiss your tender cheek.I know I didn't ask permission for thatbut, if you give me the chance,I'll do it again and again,and never grow tired of doing so.I just want you to know.