an instinct to differ

poems are colours lost in the sky
voices below paintings
talking to songs
in search of logic

paths are to wander down

will they ever end
it is legitimate to ask

what makes the poet stop along the path

an instinct to differ

in what spheres has the poet travelled
to listen to a stone
to wait before a tree
as if mesmerised by a lover's chant

into what temporality
do guitars make me cry
with headaches of acoustic similarity

you are an olive tree
your cross armed kisses lost in shouting

you return
in fields of orange suns
on scattered carpets of snow dusts
beneath ancient olive bark

there is no knowing you

there is nothing

until the next time

until the next time