Late

Blossom my dear peaches, for it is time to listen,
and time to achieve.

Its time, my devious and dement dreams,
to drift and ride with the wind.

Across the ocean
and onto the north…
to the land where my fabrications
(and my fixations)
have taken a spot.


If you refuse:


Sorry to unglue us, I am not. Its better you shush your peachy whispers and rot.

Despite the spite with which I make you grow up;
worry not, for you shall not be forgot.

It is within me
and only within me
The strength to keep you
(or kill you)
as I see fit.

I cannot continue
Losing composure for you,
Finding coherence for us;
and strangling
the fear that is ‘me’.


So blossom my peaches and drift away.
For winter is coming to kill me;
and harvest nears today.