Flow prose poem

Photo by B.Riordan.

… those nights, clear nights when I’m afraid that I’ll cut my flight on the brightest star and the wings of my thoughts will be burned on the pyre of forgetfulness of self before reaching the union of end with the beginning.
With eyes closed, I listen as the galaxies ripen, hanging from the branches of a tree to which I willingly gave my heart’s thirsty land and he willingly offered to me love, embracing with its roots every corner of my soul.
Nights, when the bliss of my freely receiving of what is offered to me vibrates orgasmically with the open receiving of what I have offered…
Nights… and dawns that adorn, like a crown of thorns,
the boundlessness’ wings crucifixion on the cage bars of the infinite reality.
Day and night… two continents separated by an ocean of longing for ourselves… and some islands where sometimes we halt, generously giving pieces of ourselves and let ourselves fertilized by the richness or the pain of what is freely offered to us- bliss or pain, both are wounds in which we are growing wings…

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Rarely read such beautiful and yet different description of the routine day and night:)


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