visitors in this world,and when no one seemed to notice
their existence.
10.
the old writer
came to visit us
today,
at our coffee shop
and suddenly,
the whole atmosphere changed.
it is now clear to me,
that his characters
live a regular life,
and pay their rent
in universes
where letters and symbols
form their own time-space
continuum;
when he speaks,
all of his worlds blend with ours,
and create intricate patterns
of reality and imagination,
like drawings
in a surrealist painting,
where form always seems to
change and transform.
we only have here
an espresso machine,
where we always make free coffee
and deliver a bit of
scented inspiration
for every person that visits us
from time to time.
11.
a basket of fruits
that was resting in the sunny shade,
has fallen asleep
to dream of the other worlds
where the sky is orange
and girls have violet eyes
with a green
fluorescent tint.
the same basket of fruits
is spreading a scent of forgotten lilies
in the surreal attempt
of becoming someday
a fantasy writer
that has found one of his books
a thousand years in the future.
12.
remembering the times,
when sacred geometry
was cuddling with cookies and biscuits
and their flavor was the only
currency they had.
a world that was before
anyone can remember,
written deep within
in the very fabric
of our existence
is lingering as a ripple,
in my emotions.
this afternoon,
I tried to eat
curiously, a yellow triangle,
wondering if it will be sweet enough
to make me understand again
this mundane
world of form.
13.
dices and Rubix cubes
in a surreal
three-dimensional dance,
are rotating slowly in a silky room,
with tiled floors,
made out of dark chocolate.
she came as a ballerina,
dressed in white foam
and velvet,
joining the cubic dance,
in a geometrical display.
time was as usual
going slowly backward,
but no one cared,
as everyone was dreaming,
and wishing for a spherical world,
where spheres of all colors
and sizes,
were the main actors,
of this surreal realm.
14.
the forgotten paintings
stored in a museum room,
revealed their stories today
in my sunny living room.
I am writing a novel
where its characters are alive,
and visit me
whenever I feel lonely;
they live in a city,
where most of the people
are painters,
painting their world
in pastel colors,
and living a life
filled with melancholy,
where anyone can see
their history
through
the paintings of the past.
15.
I am again myself,
