Temple of philae for an eye guarding throne of turquoise stone, with more gravity than the Eye of Ra it burned the worshippers of the sun.

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Let me win, my adrenaline

Let me try to be more right for you …
I’ll get lost in war but if I’m ever found
I’ll make love meeting your eyes & more
With all of the sparks that fly around.

Hush now save all your sounds …
To the nights that’ll turn us round!
I am unworthy of you, but I will try!
To deserve you, an angel to be all mine.

I want to … I want it! It’s sad.
Damn it … I want you so bad!
Let me try to win your love over!
Be my lover, rain on my dry sins.

Wash my pain, touch my skin …
Play music on my lonely lips …
Wish, fill the silence, feel my kisses
Shhh, now make a smile for me to ruin.

My head spins at the sight of perfect 10,
At the sighs at the grins at the shy red!
I want to win! I want to win! Winning you
is the best thing to me that might happen.

When impossible takes a human form …

Dear walking heaven; the meaning of poetry and the reason of love wars, the innocence in your face is tempting for corruption. I surrender, I give up, I give in, I resist … This dreamy soul of yours which is stained with earthy colours is my forbidden desire, I want to drink it like fine wine, if this was possible. The way you walk like a child in the gardens of beauty makes me want to chase you, catch you and fill my lungs with your golden laughter. The way you glow makes me wonder … Do you drink sunshine in cups for breakfast or are you the angel of love? Why do the sunflowers follow you? Why do I feel that you are my good mornings, my warm afternoons, my fading evenings and gloomy nights?

Those lips of yours … When you talk, they slither softly and are deadly enough to kill. Are they poisonous berries? I would dare to try. Two goddesses playing around a lake and I would jump into its depth even though I can’t swim, I’d rather drown than be rescued. Gathered roses of which I want to extract the finest perfume that could give eternal youth. Or is it a nectar of delicious fruits that will run through the veins of the dead and give life to their cold hearts?

I don’t mind dying in your arms; where paradise lays or on the sounds of your laughs; the meaning of true happiness; the high tasteful music; the light that will conquer any evil. Your pure soul is the meaning of love,art,adventure and selflessness. An art piece that is so fine that life brags with to let me know that you’re not mine to have, I don’t deserve you but I will settle for pleasuring my eyes with seeing you from a distance.

How can something be so beautiful and torturous? Like a rose with thorns indeed, a rose swaying in the breeze playfully, tempting to be picked and owned. Breathtaking and captivating, a mix of pain and pleasure, worthless words to describe such a magical creature who is higher than to be made out of clay.

The grey one meets grey

I was having a horrible nightmare about a mad clown who slashed his victim’s mouth from ear to ear … He said she has never smiled before and she needed it. I was woken up by the temperature in the room … It was so cold that my feet almost went blue. I woke up breathing out vapour as if it’s winter … On the edge of my bed there sits a grey troubled soul … He was a figure which took a man’s form with his head looking down.

I tried to talk with him and ask what was wrong. Yes, to talk, “Making contact” is a sentence I hate in horror movies. As if they are not like us … They feel and think. Yes they are beyond in another world under ours but they are around too. He took a look at me and faded into thin air. I wished to see him again … What was his name? Why is he in misery? I want to be a good friend and listen … Or am I in love?

I have always been curious and drawn to mystery. We shared a room together anyway, yes just because I own a piece of land on paper that doesn’t make it mine. They were here before us and we took over their world … This was his room before it was mine and he is kind enough to share it. Sometimes I see his diary next to my pillow, a language I can not understand. It looks Arabic but somehow in reverse, I’m not sure.

He’s not the only one I see, but he is the only one who is grey. I always wonder if the ones living in homes with us are different than those who live in seas, remains and near the graves. I have met some unpleasant creatures; half a goat, impossible to catch, their children, the deformed one who has a story of his own.

He, on the other hand, is more closer to my heart. He has a story that I want and he left me all alone. I am going on a mission to the ancient world beneath ours, of course I have to take permission from their king to get in and out. I shall make a deal with the witch who lives next door, I have a book that she wants and she knows how to summon kings and the retinue, she is well connected.

I wonder if the king will allow me to come back again if I knew too much … Will I find him? Will he tell me his story? Will my journey be unexpected and deadly? I must take this adventure even if I have to travel by spirit and leave my rotten body on this bed of mine. It is worth all the trouble. You will not understand … Not until the veil is removed; a curse yet a blessing. Our existence is metaphysical and beyond the human mind’s limitations, that is what you normal people need to know. Till then, see you …. Maybe.

La Maison Des Acteurs Cafe

Through all of these tables, I sat on that one. This chair is the oldest, so it is the wisest. Dear chair, I wonder how many stories have you carried? How much have you suffered and endured to get these wounds on that torn skin of yours? I love the wrinkles on your face, it complements your grey hair. Oh here comes the Asian waiter who greets me with a smile that never gets old. Oh, the way that six-fingered virtuoso showers my cake with chocolate exhilarates me.

What I love about cafes is that the people change everyday but it’s almost the same. That leaning tower of Pisa is all over his lady whom he loves deeply and as she sips the goodness of life he recites poetry to the beauty of her eyes. The old man secludes himself in the corner and has a glass of warm milk. The vulgar man who mistreats my friend is always here in different vessels. The boys who come in with rolling eyes examine the place as if it were a crime scene.

What if I opened my third eye? Would I see their real stories? Their secrets perhaps? Is there a murderer? A thief? If only it were true … I bit most of them are calculus teachers. What is that on the front page? A new bomb has exploded on the east side? Rich, please bring me today’s newspaper … Never mind I’ll get it myself. I pulled out the rolled one thirsty for fresh news and before I knew it a gun fell on the ground with a bang that scattered them like cockroaches. My favourite cafe is now closed for investigation.

When life loves life

The sun woke him up kissing his soft lips as she embraced him with warmth to say I love you, his colourful sheets tied his young body forbidding him to leave, the pigeons made love to him through his window with their beaks, untying himself he walked up to the pigeons and they flew lightly, the sea stared at the depth of his eyes with admiration.

He decided to greet the morning with a smile that made the crumbled bread on the Rambla street goes toast. He lived a day with the roses trying to catch his scent, with the country laying paths of glory for him to walk on, with the dancing birds around his head and the sky above him changed her colours when the sun buried herself in red.

The moon then came jealous playing the Moonlight Sonata on his flawless skin to keep him up until his seductive dreams pulled him in saying – “My turn” in thirst for life.