haruki murakami

a brainchild is born

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I.

quotidian day,

i wake up a voyage, far from home

escape, monotonous city

"you'll be part of a brand-new world”

II.

Norwegian wood, she hums,

nostalgia of the nonexistent,

yet a figment of her lingers,

in the chilly winds of winter.

III.

velvety green fields

caress your tanned, cocoa skin

you gaze at me, dreamily

my tired eyes meet your doe brown

IV.

the air is warmer with you around

five spice, a waltz for debby

i watch the raindrops patter

the tears running on cold glass skin.

V.

it’s quarter to twelve,

the last train to home left,

with you, I stay in these walls,

tonight i feel like something more.

VI.

your supple fingers stroke

my skin taking you to heaven in hell

the world inside me opens,

moist and vast, awaiting its key.

VII.

your love inside me,

numb this void of mine,

waves crash on the shore

like your tender lips.

VIII.

concussed, blurred,

I wake up to your silhoutte,

primal, naked,

it glows in the stark golden hour.

IX.

fitzgerald and gatsby,

i do not feel so lonely anymore,

fawned over, womanizer,

show me my purpose already.

X.

sit at the shore,

watch the tides surge

as you sing the hymns of the sea,

i observe in loving lechery.

XI.

fragments of my mother,

my memories scattered,

the kitten whispers to me

secrets of their covert life.

XII.

a cat soul flute, or a dead man

nine lives for a major life,

murder, money, magical reality,

a journey to the island once again.

XIII.

i introspect, laying on my futon

the fuzzy peach sky now ultramarine

heralded the night cometh,

pavanne for a dying princess.

XIV.

the stars will align

i miss them so dearly,

those fever dreams of mine,

where we revelled together.

XV.

a small, sorrowful funeral,

your crippled body is charred,

burnt like the marlboro

entwined between my shaking fingers.

XVI.

in a search of oneself,

the dearest flowers wilt,

all the fragments make sense,

when we are pierced bare.

XVII.

fumes of lavender,

fallen spider lilies glide

from your wounds grow flora,

bespoke green and blooming.

XVIII.

death is full of life,

the wind guides me o’er cloudy lofts,

i brush against the tall grass, the hued beach,

a sunny spring day without you.

~ rumi