Abandoned child

For some reason I couldn't help it in those early and sweet times, and sensed you like the winged entity who wrestled with Israel on the mad dune, eyes of desert: abandoned child; what your thoughts are, now.

The hand that grants, the hand that denies.

You'll never let me feel what you feel, never, ever
you'll never let me transport my self into your cells: child of the dry caravan; dry are your tears now.
Never.

Un-geometric and watery sprout of a feverish Spinoza's dream: eyes of my desert; what your loves are now?

Mine are like the void of the death.


Perhaps late at night, on the hills of a world that never knew us; observing the lights of the Great Prostitute shining, that Man of the eyes en llamas will bring you a star light.
Or perhaps I'll be abandoned forever, like Jacob wrestling with the angel among the cobalt.

I don't know.

Because it's not only convenience my song, althought it's related to every thing that you think, and still to other things that you don't think [and I bleed]

because sometimes I'm just lost, and nothing more.


Fallen being, eyes of wild blue yonder desert.