There will always be coming home,
to men who know how to cry,
to women who know how to sing by the moon
and to a little girl who does not want to stay inside
the shell of this small universe.
Don’t freeze the lava, it may blow
right to the core of its nucleus
but we know, with energy comes life
and with life, everything burns to die.
I am a narcissist with a certain stroke,
I say of luck upturned. Trust me,
when I mention fate, I am as numb as that
dead ox on the highway,
spilling white skin around with a tinge of ocean red.
But I am waiting for a re-arrangement,
when I wake up to the rule again
with the violin again in the senses.
The mogul says aloud, he will trade the world.
The eyes shine, in awe and tears
but I sit in this farthest corner of the galaxy I assume
Spinning with laughter to this foolishness
because they don’t know what I know
and what I know is a paradox
which no matter what, won’t be resolved
till the mogul trades the world
and till the deal ceases.
Remember not everything is a secret.