Under the sun

A man selling plastic fruit
They splatter on the glass and bounce back
He smiles with his fruit

Three cats in a row
All the bars full of football
Everyone shouting for their unseen lives

Here the search ceases for a while
Eventually nothing is enough
Not even the sea digesting the sun

Alone

Solitude without loneliness is the sweetest thing there is.

Growing old

Man after growing old loses his purpose, unless he becomes crazy, wise or preferably both. There is no meaning in gaining more weight, property, ex wifes, girlfriends or relatives.

There must be a point in a man's life when he must choose whether to live a dead life of gaining  or to start ripping it all apart. One must choose death in order to find meaning and beauty. Still one must do it with the utmost gentleness and grace, otherwise it's just decadence.

The spring birds

They sing so hopefully
Full of bright and life
So happy

The morning silent except the birds
And the pregnant murmur of the cars
This is the rest for the night
The moment before sleep
And the moment after all of it

There will be other nights
Other springs
And other birds
Singing as bright as they do now,
the birds and the night

Of repetition

Storyline lost
No way out
No way to avoid it
It's like the nature of things

Still there is no fulfillment
It's all less than, too much or too far
Or I'm just too tired or timid
Probably both.

I hope I'm not looking at my future
Tired eyes
Recycled stories
On repeat

The small ones

The way they move is the essence of happiness. They are so joyful and trusting in their fragile being.