Stefan Stjernberg.com

I have a black look
A mask
I have placed like a machine working from the universe in

Another suburban white silent pavement watching a passed seductive dream crowning the chimneys darkness from their illuminated solitude like singing kettles in an ever-present torment of time.

Hope always become my flesh’s reason of earthly senses, living in the dream between the coolness of forever and the innocense of all despair.

I harvest a sky over a wall of faces.

The vivid atmosphere of my landscape is dressed in an hour of a beautiful past flashing through the clothes of a dancing presence.

These feminine mirrors that owns the seasons of myself.
They are the first that covers my heart.
Like an instant key, a reflection in the eyes of a good second.
It is where I voyage.

I have found words that devours the alphabet of wounded flesh.

Where crossings pass the decorated hearts of naked blasphemies, our tears pride a thousand forests.
All curses returns this faun of fingers repeated to the tearful light of a lost mingling.
It is a madness like a carnival of glaciers.
A gasping echo of an unknown wasteland.

The corresponding remains we suffer of recovered galleries and their diversions.
Of that at the before us, wherein we suppresses the world.
It is a place of alteration.

The feets of the infinite is thickening
A closing dark drownings of my thoughts in moments that glows for any adored memory as they summon my passed you.
I remember me and this sweetness, it curles around the rose-coloured ashes.

I am the unclear loneliness and bare dizziness of a higher wish beyond the silent light’s travelling above the my itself of you beyond the trees.
It is what i have made from the rarest evening land i decorate as shadows gently fall.

It is the coming of this skins originators.
And all the birds of inner balance will fly out like a will of houses breaking into new giant empties with the find of an old morning.
Only my drill within is wearing my company.

The sky freeways are spaced carnivorous scenes painted on the page of groaning windmills with secret graffiti speaking of timeless temples.

In the before i have whispered from a child-breath underground while the sidewalk rules where fashioned with yesterdays eyes.
Its like miracle confetti for your mind, and old monuments becomes your tongue.

I found a strong arrived seeing as away at everywhere watching them all still circulating like in a middle remain it is too late for me to turn to.
That wheel don’t size my were.

In clutter verse of your silver praise the bright cold cries of the divided black custom made paradise suffers.
Face it, you are a convert.
A pilgrim.

In here my visions traces one another with flocks of morality were the unreal earth forms the paths by feeding on clouded dreams among those first feelings that were born with me.

This forbidden prehistoric own you have of ground materials.
Its like a raw quality judas dropped into all the testament of facts.
I surface there like a backyard judgment.

The must take precuations covered by literal branches that make any vulgar herd hide in circles from the one who order the birds.
It is the same with trees.
They all nests.

Our faces are clocks towards a formeless astral hunger of burned stars pointing to an hour of a liquefied distant north where we catch fire and shuffle through the colors of this world.

I anger dark innocent reason.
And blood, but as a selfish injury to everything earthly in between the consequences.
It always make my senses feel like they are dying.

A ghostly revolt carrying the days passing with the sun’s robe in a huge exhausted citysquare of thinking with time returned as a white transparent treasure in a squandered world.
This whiteness will certainly do wisdom to it.

I accept the blood conscience injustice from my hope and evil despair of the dark right living bread in between my tolerate sky-coloured senses, and the warmth speak I hear of you who have to become the torments of my earth.

My memory here shades the silent hands in my dream of the bare heart like the orange glances in a void getting lost on obscured words.

By an unknown crossed door of brightness the dark imaginary watchings meet its findings stripped from all the flaring grips of falling out from this one second to the next, the closer I come to you.

A country of waves living, listening to an old call bending me with the lost tidal architecture of an abandoned shadow assassin.

Only where the I alone shred the tongue in you, we sing without the traps that we endure of people’s bees.

Though I face a delicate blind
Like a reborn being on a changed threshold the night sky itself gives away
I am bonding my misty presesence both at hands and through the space of each lived unending future

They chain words as a constant of time and hanging entrusted belongings on me to reassure any desires born of only proven domains.
Me and my dreams.
I am a mysterious error to the imagination of life.

Sure, my maternal presence is walking me down the planets weariness to alert my walls of childhood under the broom of flesh, to meet the absent part of me beneath the who that follows this air.

The pathways of shell faces surrenders to the beast of courage for the tidy innermost corpses and wonders to be covered in the remains of others.

I ground myself between the bubble moss and that vibration that places my within beneath the clothes of my expression.

At last at vibrate life from the where that owns this figures stars when they appear with time and matter to the sound of thousand eyes looking at my pillow.

I have become the rift of flares in when that the not surrounds until the present room is raised to silken them all.

Like the you are in me, the I from our merciful games within, is us and otherness chained to the mind’s fate of an old world.

I am a landscape made of a still beautifying degree of diversion coming from this farther vegetation I find in analogues of reflection.

An unknown plant carries great ripples if I am folding the elsewhere travels of visible scatters that touches me in its modesties of rainbow water.

My reality is born of words from those remains where handshakes flesh are hiding them to disappear in contradictions of a vast sky from the appearing veins and shivers as we reaches daylight no were near this creatures of illusion.

A jars dream in lost white with flesh and morning olds falling dark sky whimsies, fading the dawn on me in a taste of barebone whisperings thin little closed quarters.