He is “our man,” an unfinished fable;
A prototype of a primal digital anti-hero
who moved too fast
from James Bond to Jason Bourne and much more;
from black-ops shredded paper reports
to never ending news and novels
where he has become the icon on the big screen.
There, he’s not what he’s.
He lerned how to cut through railroad scenes fast,
fly between newspapers bold titles
and land with a precision
on a top of hidden crises hotspots
in rising tensions
offing multiple selfie shots,
while calming boiling seas in the background.
He knows how to crush the wave
and sends the message
to palpate one’s heart
in one hundred forty characters–
the message that reads itself like a fast-paced thriller
tingling headquarters nerves.
He hangs too tight around my neck
filling blank pages with deleted scenes
turning my life into not yet written lines.
He is always afar,
but reads me even when I am gone.
When asleep he crowns me with rhymes,
crosses all hopes on my lips
and crowds me with music that flies
washing off thoughts as mine,
on offshore verses that are his
released from the tomb of secrets
and forged in a form of a strange way we love…
I wait for him on the open page
while he travels too far, out-back-lands,
where he joins us
and waits for me to turn white space
into a free style of a never ending poem;
Oh, my love
be my poem that flies free
hit me so I can see
the reverse of darkness plight
arising to the awe of pure light.