n-khrennikov

[n-khrennikov]

[n-khrennikov]

To grasp me would be of no use; my form flows like an immortal river.

H.хренников

[n-khrennikov]

She wear a dress made of poems, and each verse is a detail.

H.хренников, Esthétique (via Morgondagen)

[n-khrennikov]

Thanks you 

via @justdust

[n-khrennikov]

My dark sketch is like shards of glass, the patterns forming a work of art shrouded by the demons of the past.

H.хренников, A Tragic Journey to Rochester

[n-khrennikov]

[n-khrennikov]

“The bare hand... hugging thoughts, reminiscing the sigh. Heart broken, eyes broken. Peaches of mandarin and orange. Rise, burn, smell of the other day. In the silence of the small room, I hear everything, and darkness lies in the castle of the ego.”

n-khrennikov

[n-khrennikov]

The Tears flow for Ukraine

Cry.

Don’t cry,

Do not hang your head, my neighbors.

You cannot choose when you die,

When your woes are straining,

The careful muffled sound of heartbreak

Of the deep silence of the souls.

A giant shit in his own backyard,

It is “ride or die”.

And you can choose how you die.

And nothing more, and nothing more.

And we’re no more, and we’re no more.

But be alive, alive and only,

Alive and only to the end.

Wind, keep singing for them, do not wane,

And in it, now forever.

Arise, arise now, brother-soldier.

Freedom is never free.

Nikolai Khrennikov

[n-khrennikov]

Pen shows!

[n-khrennikov]

The bench is full this morning

[n-khrennikov]

She formed to be yours

at the threshold of inception

they were molded together

bisected, to find rejoining

Her eyes are shaped

to see your face

her gaze is drawn to you

as the moon draws the tide

her heart opens for your love

She is a little bell tuned to a singular tone

reverberating with your voice

We resonate with the sound of her name.

~ H.хренников, Grace

[n-khrennikov]

Kingdom by the Sea

[n-khrennikov]

Meandering the chorus of her scent, I am lost between the curtains of her belly and her mouth

I worship the sunrise in her form divine, my head bowed down in reverent respect, I pray that the sun sets between us beautifully.

maybe in another life, we could be a temple of a shared two bodies, twilight, upright, hand in hand.

Her mouth becomes melody, singing without words.

i wander, consuming her pleasure with, softly, as though she were a little butterfly.

much like a tremendous hunter. we surrender, together

shared in solemn silence pass the day. the doorway to mutual softness.

the glory and divinity, Love is the gift of life.

~ H.хренников, Love is the Gift of Life

[n-khrennikov]

 Loving you is panic, so claustrophobically  large,  but sometimes you are a Spring, catalyzing  wind in  where then ...            you,  place your own breath in the parts of me that  struggle for it.

~ H.хренников

[n-khrennikov]

 New baby 

[n-khrennikov]

TRAGIC JOURNEY TO ROCHESTER

[n-khrennikov]

Love is taught to us through enacted acts of hope, and hope through our acts of enacted love. I fall back into myself. It is not sadness, but hollowness in darkness. I was a bird. My former plumage droops, heavy as stone. Chan is a thief. He stole my eyes for years. I was blind. I hid from my lover in those wide, empty sockets, immobilized by fear, regression, anger, and misjudged joy. I hid so much pain, elation, anxiety, and worry. Yes. I admit that. My sprawl in the aftermath, an inferno of peacock-like mountain valleys, and her love fills me as though I were infinite, as though this endless hole inside of me were somehow more finite. I back into myself. He rises, an eruption, into a sky-hungry peak sunk soft with wildflowers; a fatal illness like a melody of death (elegy) in a squall, where once there was no wind. Scattering. These, my embers, roost in the lava of him when I am no more than a quiet songbird.

H.хренников, Mercy from Tragic journey to Rochester