This image is subjected to © Copyright Rosa Cobos 2013 – All rights reserved
I dreamnt that I was a metaphor,
wisely recited by a God,
that awoke the transient Beauty.
It was not enough, the bliss of that perfection.
I left my fingetrips touch the dew with the Moon inside.
Coldness creeping into an Old Soul….icy magnetism.
They say that we all have a clon, a mirror of Love.
And some that there is a mirror of Hate.
And I recall, Mirror and Pond, versión of reflection.
Narcissus embarked on a vessel of deceit.
Where are you that I cannot catch your essence?
Poorly written, that verse containing raw material.
A laughing in the midway of sorrow and joy.
I am not loving it…the repetition, the absent evolutiion.
But the Soul needs to root in the vernacular.
My home..my own…..my left visitors, the thoughts.
Nor I desdain the echo of a melancholic dropping,
as a line of a poem swimming in metrics and music.
When I dream, I do perceive the untouchable.
And the sensations, creep under the sheets,
looking for the space of the Nebula.
Emergent and Submerging, the coat of freedom.
Easy to wear under and over the vibrant skin.
I dreamnt I was dreaming…the hardest.
A waving image of Life biofeedbacking.
I call you…you…..me, and
you call me …..me…you.
And at the end, no one is there,
to receive my tiding.
© Copyright Rosa Cobos 2013 – All rights reserved