Archivio per la categoria The Black Knight

Do not get used to …


Do not get used to it  to
“I love you” 
to
“You’re the best”

ease  with which they are declared
feelings  the same amount of Monopoly money.

Do not get used to it  speeches that have peppered with compliments,  enthusiasms easy,  the hugs.

Rather accustomed to discernment. Time  as the strainer to the flour,  leave itself  pieces and only people of a certain weight.

The bulk remains in the soul  and often those who own  it is considered essential  is almost useless: chanterelle  Peacock and seller of himself.

Do not get used to it  because the party can turn into empty. Then I say so  I seem to counsel  and after so much time and crooked,  and so many beatings that

I’ve got got,

often do not mind at all stè attentions,  just give him so falling back !!

Marco Vasselli © 2014

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Goddes Poetry .


It happens that
melancholy dominates, 
worn.
  Paste thoughts  the happy memory of what you were.

It happens that  stress wears down,
  chaos afflicting  and you seem to never ever come to the end.

Happens
… Yes, but …
  Enchanted comes the Goddess Poetry 
…  and here
  dissolves the ugly inside !!

Marco Vasselli © 2014

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If they told me …


If they told me that life is bad,
I answer:
“You do not know she ,
and She is Life ”

Marco Vasselli © 2014

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They go …


They go  … 
the clouds of Autumn
  from the courtyards of the sky of Rome,
  political parties, sweethearts,  the profs
… … …

They go  … 
good people,  the bad times,  a lot of money  …

Summer  the calm sea  the storms.

They go  …
  like clouds on a blue pastel, 
or swallows after winters spent elsewhere  and  at the same time  we are in  as the light of the sun to warm up the steps
… … …

Marco Vasselli © 2014

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A waltz


A waltz 
music and orchestra are waiting.
Will you dance with me?

A waltz
to the tune of those violins  let us go back to regroup.
The lightness of the legs 

that read  out of a carpet of soft music, 
find in the green of your eyes,  the green meadows where to find  what for me were.

The daisy on the scooter helmet,  film failure  library  …  and joy and Gaia  on a bench in the suburbs.

A waltz  while my eyes laying on your smile strawberry  and sweet as I would always see.

A waltz  from the past in the present volga  to head towards becoming.

A waltz and poetry  simple and beautiful  with your “we seh”  your photos  my illusions.

A waltz  to declare you this feeling  that is not paper mache  There was and remains  as to expect that the rest here  …

Marco Vasselli © 2014  A Gaia Lang.

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Coming .


Coming events 
as something you do not expect,  such victories as defeats,  benefits as cursed.

Here come the seasons to die from the cold,  or those carefree and short sleeves.

Good and bad things come all,  but when I have faced and saran distant 
I lie down on the edge of life  top of a hammock made of clear.

Marco Vasselli © 2014

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Night .


Night  dots between yesterday and today,
quiet  calm wind  moon cold and callous that is there.
Moon  I have not turned their eyes more,
not a word  and yet I know  you’re still there  to illuminate  the path of those who  is lost at night in the night  and still wanders between Centocelle and the world.

Night  your jacket in black  you dress up all the houses  and on roads where it is now quiet.

This suburb  assumes magical scents  between a deli and tranvetto  that  still waiting for forty minutes,  along with the new day will start again …

Marco Vasselli © 2014

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