when the essence of essential sleep essentially wakes the writers heart

When the rain comes
Let it flow.
Do not dwell upon the drops
For no dreams unheard the thunder
Roar.
Their round essence glow like the face to the sun
Warmed and dressed up
Like the thought of you
and Your dancing dreams.

The inspiration of mind waves
Gleam and poke
Speak truth again as the fade of the night
turns the hum of the day
Into visions of times difference
When our heads rest at mindful hours
Parted
and Straight to the heart.

A.Lord

A quiet 4:30am under the covers. The changing seasonal winds blow. Speaking of covers. I'm safe and warm. I am writing. I wonder what kind of pillow your head rests upon in the west.

I want to hear about your dreams. About the whispers of the heart that dance and turn. Yes, write them down, let them out. Sometimes the booze and weed get us out of our own way, a release perhaps not capable otherwise in this moment. Your words are beautiful. I like hearing your mind expand.

I thought of you tonight. On the walk home. How lovely it was to speak to you. How you make my heart smile. The essence of you.

It is most definitely late and you are most definitely passed out. I write anyway. I was sleeping just before this and was awoken by the voice "look at your phone". I listened. I am glad i did.

Here you are.

Dream in colour. The rich tapestry of vision lingers but for a moment, to be captured and woven together with new light.

Cheers mate. You're lovely. (British accent)

not a love letter

This may or may not be a love letter.
Sober, or less than, when someone tells you they kinda love you, not so easy to brush off. At least for me. With you.
For the record I was not angry. Upon further reflection...I was in fact frustrated at the very essence of being shaken and stirred. By no means angry. I wanted to tell you that. So you know.

I have thought similarly of you. This man, who admires me from a distance. Of whom fond thoughts have existed. Slightly removed, yet seemingly close, here we are, connected. Arguably.
So i write to you, for no other reason than i was compelled to do so.

And I shall write...and say hello. Send the tea. Proceed to carry onwards in my vision. I am building a dream.

For the people, the poets, I wish for us to seek and succumb to the deepest parts of the heart. To never settle. To know the pictures we paint are dreams worth craving. To trust we will live ourselves into the beautiful little imaginary world, suspended, if only for a moment, in it's hideaway. To be found. As life unfolds and we become. And as spoken poetically by a great, in a place where we dare to dream, where we dare to "live the questions now, to live everything".

One day, when our worlds collide in the realest of realness I shall meet this fascinating human. Until then I shall write. I shall dance into the future, of this beautiful life, with a happiness that burns. Showers blessings upon us. I shall wonder of you. From afar. Once removed from often. As you exist in the safe keeping of this heart, ringing fierce frequencies not intended for the moment. On a tilted horizon, where both sides of the sun set, and I may love you reasonably, removed of reason.

Be well. Write on. Drink tea.

Cracks in the Mirror

Basking in complexion
Flickering, boldness
of developed faces
Dimmed perception wanes
To raise truth at smoked mirrors
Catching glimpses of the unseen.
-A.Lord

fall off the page

Alas this poetess can't sleep
Seemingly silent
Speaking truths
Revealed and unspoken
Take yourself to the place where
Stories live
I'll write the words that fall off the page
and drop Rays of light
That turn a key to this moment
-A.Lord

The decadence of Ordinary

You do not cook, scoundrel
Then what is on the table
If not for this teas truth?
I see you, revealed like the tales you tell.
Drops of freedom, no seeming fascination
Might I look again?
The kindness of your blackened eyes
Mysteries these delights.
I am a lover
of those whose hearts beat beyond
The ordinary

I see you, revealed like the stories you tell.
If spokes, were unspoken
Could you handle this curious heart?

I would rather go swimming...
and ride a bike through the city
for it is autumn
and we have nowhere to fall.

We shall meet when you are less than bored

Painted poet, the suits are on the pool deck
Their misplaced grins
You smell good.
Is that Armani from 1958?
A decadent blend
The sun beams beyond this city's needle
Please sir, no spitting on the deck.