22h43. Poetry, my old friend.

Birds fly
and I don't even know why.
They fly fall and crawl
They get back up
Sometimes, not even hurt at all.

Bird's feathers,
some say,
are made of wind skin
So their fate is literally
on wind's hands.
Like many of us,
as you and as me,
they fly fall and crawl.

I must say, I find amusement in this display because, like bird's, we are all just tripping in fate.
Therefor, like bird's, we shall fly on.
Falling down and staying on the ground is no choice for a living being  to make.

09/03/14

This is something new. 
Also something old. 
I guess memories don't really have an age, do they?
Even if they do, time is relative anyway.



09/03/2014

Floating, I am hearing you call my name.
With my head under water, I'm giving you all that there is of me.
Still, my deep soul is softly asking you to release me.
So, my faithful anchor,
please, let me go.
Let my body and mind move on from the paradise that is the memory of you