Wisdom comes with pain.
But it requires prise-
                                   As it is not the prize.
 
Scars were just the gateways,
                       The keyholes
                                   To unopened third-eyes.
 
Sundering thoughts.
            “Why is there a verb for oozing light
                                               [shine]
                       but not one for oozing darkness?”
Memory and melody have the 2-twisting letters
                                   That stand the farthest…
 

 
I believe in one-day beauty
                       [1,2,3. Midnight butterflies]
and in one-thousand years beauty,
in a seven-season long summertime.
 
I believe in the beauty of an instant,
In the sparkling webs of tears
            Trapped in someone’s eyelashes.
In the sound of a dozen matches.
                       [4,5. Catching fire at the same time]
 
I believe in the sour and in the soaring,
In the sweet and in the mo(u)rning.
 
 
 
I believe in the Fallen
            That Phoenix-rise.
In the wounded
That forgive at last.
                       [6,7. All the birds have gathered for your first flight. So fly.]
 
I believe
            In remembering who you are
Just by watching your hands.
 
                       And
                       [let the color lines stand-out. Weave & weave
                       to cast one only line: “I am”]
Spellbound by peace,
            The battle-born mirths.
Be worthy of yourself,
Not of some soul mate hidden somewhere.
                       [8,9,10. Ready or not,
                                               here I come!]
 

 
Be happy- find a way.
Authenticity is a hard-removable aura.
 
It’s imposible to be who you’re not while you use your hands.
 
                       [Petrichor is the smell of dreams, besides of rain.]
 
The third eye peeks right inside the box of Pandora,
but suffering is out there anyway.
 
I want to share this happiness with you.
There’s sickness, there’s pendulum-silence, there’s pillow-tiredness.
 
There’s the heart-attacked absence of champagne   
                                                                      Colored
                                                                                  Rain.  
But I’m at peace with who I am.
                       I know my life
                                   I know my name
                                               I know my songs
                                                          And they’re worth all I will ever be.
 
[There’s no soul mate hiding.
                       It was me all along.
                                               And I’m me.]
 
So here it is:
            My name is Alice.
            I’m she,
            And I’m Nim.
            [Even if/Because Tuomas once said that I have all the oceans within.]
 
I’m ready to be born
Everytime I write a Word.
It’s a tragedy and a blessing that we can’t say everything in just one work.
 
Last tune.
                       Or maybe we can.
                                   All you need, after all- are your hands.
                                                                                                                              [Found you.]