fire in the heart

On the tiptoes, thievishly, without looking back but just
scrolling down for going forward through the diaphanous steam.
The breath, the eyelids are wrapped up like at the beginning
of the world without having burdens, without nothing but just
moving ahead guided by the purity of light in pictures of any day.
The paintings are shaped with sounds.
The brush seems more that's comforting us rather than giving us
colors... playing so tenderly with us, with a thin fog, with steam,
with a black and white, where time doesn't exist
in the morning galaxy, but just a 6 am & do it again instrumented
with the fire in the heart in an equitable tint of the transparency.
On the tiptoes, thievishly to not disturbing life, we're looking
for finding ourselves, for not to waste a classy love under
a deep feeling which unfolds without to be rather than being
in waiting for falling stars, for making happen, for taking a fragment,
which even if is there, it's perfect for being held, and it looks almost
alike with a happy time that was and with another happy time what's
to come, and that brush named love... A majestic brush that comes
to bring us light to remove the shadows and to teach us about us,
and about the mastery of love letting us understand its colors...
On the tiptoes, thievishly, we're moving ahead to not break anything
from what it was not, but it will be, from this faultless love of us...
©ᵏᴼᵏᴼ ↭ un p'tit je ne sais quoi

[Dark Rooms]│[Le Voyageur]

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what's sealed there, it's felt here deeply