'𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒍 [joe mazzello]

'𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒘𝒐

       Did you ever feel at home without being there? While you were at thousands miles away from it, while you were in the arms of your eternal lover, or even of an ephemeral love, or when you stared at the eyes of your best friend during a deep conversation in the late night? As a traveller of life, there is always a place who will make me the desire to die in here, there will always have a museum full of art, a park full of brown leafs, a cafe who smell as heaven, those things where i'll remember my best friends, where my memories will be paint of gold, where this book will be print. I am happy at home, 'cause the world is my home, as my gentle soul think when i miss my amber land.

Someone : 'Hey miss...it is time to wake up.'

While my delicate sleep, where i feel heavenly bless by the dreams who are draws into my mind, a precious voice tell me to open my eyes, with a gentle touch on my shoulder to significate at my soul to light on my body. I fell so preciously, my eyes where sewed between them, my sleep was so clear, a fairytale where i slept on the shoulder of my king, where everyone of my sleepy breaths will be safe with his care. It felt real, being a poetic artist have this lovely advantage, can imagine, and feel every single breathe of what you are imagining, hear every heartbeat and feel every rhymes on the old parchments. I don't know where i am, probably not where i had to be, where my retro motel is, and where my eyes have to be close. I guess i am a little bit excited by this precious thing, i will can explore a new part of this giant town, and fill my soul of hundreds new memories, to write them here, in the book of my life. I didn't noticed that someone was there with me, sitting in the same wagon, sharing with me this poetic travel, or maybe it is someone who work in here, someone who have the habit to waking up the soft poets as me, the extravagant musicians, the adorable writers or every artists up at night who lost their souls in here as ethereal ghosts in a victorian roman. I slowly open my eyes, with that old yellow light who come into my eyes as the sun into the early evening window. Fastly, i get up, to be ready to walk through the streets, under the stars, totally lost into my epic fantasy, i didn't noticed the soul in here anymore. I will thanks this sweet soul, who wake me up sweetly and softly, who wanted to keep my poetry alive. I put my eyes on this soul who is carefully sit, this soul who preciously began to look at me into the eyes... i stare at this soul... my blue eyes are sewed again, but this time to rest eternally open. My poetic soul can feel what is real, what is not, what is surrealist, what is the world with a bit of magic, with the dust of fairies. What i stare, is more than a pinch of star dust, he is here, sitting, to the seat next to me. Here, standing front of him, i can see those hazel eyes, these amber hairs, that god damn goofy smile more realistic than i never saw it. I can't take my eyes off of him, if i make a mistake and that's a dream i don't want to wake up anymore. Never. And if he is real, i want to memories every trait of this meeting, to be able to write it on all the pieces of papers in the world to warm up my lonely nights. He is here, real, bones and flesh, aura and soul Joseph.

Joseph : 'Hello miss, i am sorry i was obliged to waking you up from this precious sleep you seemed to had, that's the last station.'

He said that so wisely, as a poetic artist, he guessed that i was in a precious sleep without any words of mine. I expect nothing from him when my plane stopped on this land, nothing from him only just his portrait into my soul to rock my steps. I smile wisely, a bit shyly and answer to him with the words of my conscience.