Life is so strange,
my mind’s a machine,
weaving whispered keys—
Buñuel and Lynch in between.
The angels inside
scratch at the door,
wings on my heart,
fly on the wall.
Concrete burns
the feet once free,
touched by sand,
lost to the sea.
Where are you now?
Where did you go?
A living echo of you
I struggle to know.
One day I'll write down
all the colours you gave.
You made me; I'm your art,
I am your endless wave.
Writings in Blue 