Modus Vivendi
This doesn’t feel right, it’s not my place
I feel like I’m on the outer of this world
when I feel the cold touch of your face
this fog, like life, is a complex of reflexes
reflected in a narcissist’s bliss.
I can’t see her, but I need my muse,
I can’t see her, but I need her to re-fuse
This doesn’t feel right, it’s not my place
I feel like I’m on the outer of this
when I feel the cold touch of her face
amazed, I infused this with the non abstract
to keep the material maze intact
take a jog and silently retract
a mindful work of art
love life like living lawfully loving lyrically lively labyrinths
this represents thoughtful reigns timing rainfall of theoretical relativity
or an abstract heart.
I await the last part but loving it from the start
when I feel the cold touch of your face
I try to taste but being on the outer
I know this isn’t my place
when I can’t see her is when I need her
needing to refuse.
This fog is the mirror of my mind flawlessly mirroring
me egocentric.
And this logic sounds strange, but I’m only trying to
rearrange my thoughts
that flow with time attached to a perfect beat
like the rhythms of life are concentric
Walking in this fog, I come up to a park bench, sitting down
I read what’s written between the lines of a new dawn’s early shadows.
This is god’s journal, but I don’t believe he exists, so I write it naturally in small caps, just like my name and the letter “i”.
I’ve never finished this story but
in my non existence expressed I don’t need and have no use
because I’ve found my place and my face is cold too
this material is abstract and the maze is transparent
so I can see her now, I’ve found my place, I can touch
your face, I can see you now, I’ve found our place,
I can touch her face and I can see her now, can you see
me now? I can touch this place.
This doesn’t feel right, it’s not my place
I feel like I’m on the outer of this world
when I feel the cold touch of your face
this fog, like life, is a complex of reflexes
reflected in a narcissist’s bliss.
I can’t see her, but I need my muse,
I can’t see her, but I need her to re-fuse
This doesn’t feel right, it’s not my place
I feel like I’m on the outer of this
when I feel the cold touch of her face
amazed, I infused this with the non abstract
to keep the material maze intact
take a jog and silently retract
a mindful work of art
love life like living lawfully loving lyrically lively labyrinths
this represents thoughtful reigns timing rainfall of theoretical relativity
or an abstract heart.
I await the last part but loving it from the start
when I feel the cold touch of your face
I try to taste but being on the outer
I know this isn’t my place
when I can’t see her is when I need her
needing to refuse.
This fog is the mirror of my mind flawlessly mirroring
me egocentric.
And this logic sounds strange, but I’m only trying to
rearrange my thoughts
that flow with time attached to a perfect beat
like the rhythms of life are concentric
Walking in this fog, I come up to a park bench, sitting down
I read what’s written between the lines of a new dawn’s early shadows.
This is god’s journal, but I don’t believe he exists, so I write it naturally in small caps, just like my name and the letter “i”.
I’ve never finished this story but
in my non existence expressed I don’t need and have no use
because I’ve found my place and my face is cold too
this material is abstract and the maze is transparent
so I can see her now, I’ve found my place, I can touch
your face, I can see you now, I’ve found our place,
I can touch her face and I can see her now, can you see
me now? I can touch this place.
Copyright ©2008 Bogdan Ciochinaru