Bem vindos sejam!

'"Arte, "a parte pelo todo", assim como a metonímia nada tem de insignificante em sua instrução e reconstrução no texto lírico. É parte das matérias e das almas como flores geométricas e fractais de uma natureza infinita'"

segunda-feira, 22 de agosto de 2011


There it is,
That backwards flash of retrospective bliss
that allows you an insight into what went wrong,
When you started to care about her,
Noticed the way her hair rested on her forehead:
Chaotic and beautiful,
Like the poetry you dream of writing but seldom achieve.

She is the ideal,
And yet unattainable,
Her smile, a row of teeth that claim your heart
in sequence with every word they allow to pass.
But when will it stop?
When will your hand pass over the keyboard
without a sound that speaks of her?
When will the taps fade into absence, from her,
and those eyes that beg to be adored
simply because there is nothing in the world
as worthy of adoration -- when?
Will it be easy to disconnect and drive away thoughts of her,
with her dainty feet and earnest smile,
When she no longer features in your weekly routine?
Can you imagine not seeing her again?

She is the coffee you must not drink,
Because you know that she will awaken you
to a happiness you are not permitted,
Simply because you met her later than somebody else,
who is good and equally worthy.
But how your eyes look into hers with hope,
And how her gaze returns with such glorious promise,
Still astounds you.

You have never wanted to dance as much as when sat beside her,
Because your feet never felt as connected to your mind
as when trapped in her infinite gaze.

Understanding is an island that sits on the horizon,
Taunting you with it's proximity while you silently muse.

"Does she see me here as I watch, mesmerized by her existence?
Does she understand that the hope she has promoted
for requirement is overshadowed by the fear of her departure?"

Is this the pain and glory of which the everyday voices
consistently dream when attempting to convey love?
If it is, then I fear for those that ask such questions,
As I know of no answers for such passion,
And neither do the gentle hands of time.

- Written by: Lee Woodward

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