Excerpts from the Red Journal

My heart’s tremors are there to remind me,
Of the realization I perhaps once knew,
Was I not sure just yesterday,
Of which direction the wind blew?



Asher B. Durand

Have you known a man who cries when he sings,

When he presses against the white key, his music rings,

Like a wasp, his music stings,

Piercing layers binding spirits to beings.


He lives in magic, and flies without wings,

There’s a soul upon his body, whispering things,

Swallowing his spirit, breathing his lyric,

They make love like music, and moan acoustic.


Together, they shatter dreams into figments,

And reality into pigments,

Of shades and colours, purples and blues,

And remain there forever, engrained in the wind.