High without hopes, as loud without sounds or highlighted without paint. Either way it doesn’t make any sense and fighting it only feels like an unmade bed, a broken heel or a piece of glass in the foot. Like colours that don’t match and never will and birds that sing endless choirs of misspelled words.

And the misgivings, the disillusions, the desecrations, the disabilities, disaffections, disappearances and disappointments. The disarmament that can only be discerned throughout disbeliefs and disconsolation. I am now disconnected.

Haikus are writing themselves, hang on trees and slide on the back of dragonflies, endangering themselves. Words turn promiscuous as the spring dawn moves forward and unveils their bodies almost completely. Without any resentment and an eclipsed shame they dance in the scalded milk like air, breathing slowly through vocals and puns.

At noon they occasionally hide beneath the leafs of plants growing in the dungeons of shores, just to rest for a while. At three o’clock they’re back, lingering around with the same promiscuity, leaving a ghost aftertaste.

Some would think specters walk around foolishly, in heavy daylight, compromising the lights they’re made of, when in fact such poltergeists are the bits of haikus striking in the heat, the haikus which were given too much credit.

They fall apart like illnesses, at the sunset, these worries-provoking creatures now looking like nothing but broken light bulbs with dim-lights covering their fragile bodies and vanish at midnight, returning to the humble who operated himself, who cut his throat to let the words out and create the haiku he was unable to write.

Dark-blue ink tiptoed on the wooden floor.