Morning rush-hour sounds cavort with newspapers that fly across cobblestone streets into open doorways. Subway sounds rush through London's waking dreams
The heart is the magician. Poet's words swirl in an endless void running to catch the eternal wind. The human spirit magically emerges from the magician's hat.; the soul finding its equal in a sea of colour.
When the wind sings in gusts of colour, ghosts dream in the blue of your eyes. When sagas fall into a fire that lights the night sky with tears, your heart breaks a glacier and collides with llove.