Why is it that he always bleeds As the night descends? There are places he yearns to be, But he ends up with his words On his desolate fingers Every single time the moon blooms, He bleeds into inebriation, The storms pay reverence to his poetry, And so do beggars on their plates, And mothers in their dreams.
They’ll take you to the clouds, his words, In dark corners and empty corridors, In fires and in the bloodiest woods - Even if it is a trance, the beauty in intoxication, You must allow yourself to drown In his words and fly in his seasons, You must brew up an imagination Without the fear of being questioned, It all is in the words, and those oceans, But you must dare to claim, firstly.
With all the scents that fill up the Smoke in the room, he bleeds, All night, under the temple of The Moon, He attempts to reach the next daylight, And somehow along the way, The scarlet blood of his bleeds In which he found hope, To make it to the next day, Hurts him now, alike a wound - How can something that delivers Hope into candles to keep flaming hurt?
He tries hard to escape words, The parts of poetry that heals seagulls Now reside in the air, hanging - He needs something more, something concrete, But its too vague in the head to Find the tune to start with, It’s too empty a place - Films, stars, prayers, fireworks? He endeavours every of these domains, Every night he begins to drift to bleeding And hunt out no solace, no solitude in any - He beholds an image from the future, A blurry portrait of a heavy meal to consume, A war to fight, a lot to endure, a lot to come, But for now, it hurts, just a little too much, When it bleeds, But nevertheless, it does happen, Every single night, with every single drink.