Village of emptiness.
Souls that travel for no purpose
then the mundane.
Simplicity that feels nothing,
only empty.
Breaking both worlds to live as hybrid.
not civilised nor else,
a mere wounded animal
to live on the fringes of the city.
Not a thought of it,
No looking at time through a straw
of white panel filled with the stripe of red.
Because it is young still
a life of ephemerid.
Only a brick on majestic
construction close to the river banks
not knowing life as natural,
as essential as breath.
Maxwell Black
September 22, 2009
06.45am
September 29, 2009
September 23, 2009
A trip to Infinity - An ever ending trip
I look at you:
no more then this white numbness.
The impossibility to do something else;
just accepting what is.
Freedom for not choosing what
should be rightfully mine.
An eternity for a Lone Traveller
that now faces Its fear for
not being; more then It had ever thought.
Naked feet on this floor of raw stone
that stands between success and I,
a time where I feel no hope for not
the rise of the stars and moons;
such glorified ray of rage and energy,
iternal in its shortness yet mortal
in existense.
Today. I look at what might
in the hope of the forgetful to remember
a single existense; a possibility.
Not at shortage of thought
in the ever ending trip.
Rationality of hope.
Maxwell Black
September 22, 2009
06.25am
September 13, 2009
No dream has ever looked so furder then before.
Back.
Back to a world that is no longer mine.
Where I once called my own,
now a simple space with strangers.
And yet, the longing for Civilization
for a place I yearned since child
and could not meet yet.
A lost soul behind the flickering light
in the first drop of September's rain.
And here, when the inner persona fights
for a place where Man is its own
it seems as if faith is pulling the opposite way,
pulling towards the palace of head and desert
where no living of the self is possible.
Here I dream, of being just a sound of the
falling rain on the concrete sidewalk;
and of the storm sky that flourishes
its beautiful tones of grey light of a sole
keystroke on the black and white box of peace.
Where should it drop from the wings of pure
to the woods at the base of mountain
where the pure of the white is just falling
where no-one is to confirm the reality of Nature.
No dream has ever looked so furder then before.
No soundtrack of weird calm yet sad melody
of silent and colourful music.
Just another sunset and another water
from the greenery of The Blue Mind:
blessed tear of relieve for a dream that cannot be.
A sadness of flying when it's shown how to,
an untaken breath longing for its time
that will never be.
A look behind the shoulder and, then
a face that looks down and turns,
never to be.
Maxwell R. Black
03.16am
September 13, 2009
Back to a world that is no longer mine.
Where I once called my own,
now a simple space with strangers.
And yet, the longing for Civilization
for a place I yearned since child
and could not meet yet.
A lost soul behind the flickering light
in the first drop of September's rain.
And here, when the inner persona fights
for a place where Man is its own
it seems as if faith is pulling the opposite way,
pulling towards the palace of head and desert
where no living of the self is possible.
Here I dream, of being just a sound of the
falling rain on the concrete sidewalk;
and of the storm sky that flourishes
its beautiful tones of grey light of a sole
keystroke on the black and white box of peace.
Where should it drop from the wings of pure
to the woods at the base of mountain
where the pure of the white is just falling
where no-one is to confirm the reality of Nature.
No dream has ever looked so furder then before.
No soundtrack of weird calm yet sad melody
of silent and colourful music.
Just another sunset and another water
from the greenery of The Blue Mind:
blessed tear of relieve for a dream that cannot be.
A sadness of flying when it's shown how to,
an untaken breath longing for its time
that will never be.
A look behind the shoulder and, then
a face that looks down and turns,
never to be.
Maxwell R. Black
03.16am
September 13, 2009
September 04, 2009
The prelude to the dawn of life.
'Estamos de partida. Mochila às costas, bilhetes na mão e comboio à espera. Uma aventura nos espera. 7 mentes impregnadas de tanto entusiasmo, prontos para viver 7 dias de grandes emoções acampados nas terras de Viseu. (...) Tendo em conta a quantidade de malas e malinhas, mochilas e sacos que levamos, dá a ideia de que vamos para França. Whatever. Who cares? Levamos na bagagem espirito de sobrevivência e muita sede de aventura. (...) Um beijinho.'
Por Vera Branco, em Setinha @ Home
Ás quase mãos do relógio de Sol descanso não passa em olhos
que de oliva nasce quando aí se embate a estrela da Noite.
Se, por um lado nada de dentro se deposita em saco
por outro algo de estranho se de mim apodera.
À crescida da rosa para terra de onde nada mais que
o extracto da àgua adveio aos passados tempos
e que, ao despois de tal queda national se isolou em
recantos, por detrás do poente alto.
Não recobro da alma e do pensamento que
a espera deteve; a fugaz tentativa de fugidão
do que em pedra escrito me atormenta na mente do presente.
Porém, resta nada que a esperânsa e sentido
falham.
Pelo que o recêntio do que passou permanece, ainda ao consciênte
e o sentido da perdição esmagado contra a maré
em mim descansa.
Apenas uma despedida de quem de novo se muda.
The prelude to the dawn of life.
Maxwell Black
Sep 4, 2009
04.54am
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