every day of being human is a war. every night I buckle up and set myself en route to the endless road- wordless, 'cuz everyone's chasing the same goal, the same mystery, the same journey.
at one point midway, we're all scarecrows hiding behind chalked smiles. angels hover over our lifespan, stretched like north and south poles, we can't see either but they exist, frozen in their own places.
I see people, building walls in and around themselves, I try drawing boundaries to keep them away, often forgetting I'm as much a human as them.
before it dawned on my visual field you were gone like a ghost in the wind now the air is stale and speaks a foreign dialect. my mind picks up the last few signposts of summer, waiting like angels of transition- one eye verdant, another blood red. maybe this evening is possessed or maybe I'm seeing things or maybe, just maybe the world is racing too fast. two hours past the end of this summer, my arms are frozen from your transparent embrace. two swollen orbs traverse the skyline, searching for a rebirth of dawn, when electric poles cast longitudinal shadows on the thermodynamic sand, but farewells last longer than wordless prayers. nightmares tiptoe around the borders of my town and monsters creep downstairs from their highland houses- battles resume in the wind, muffled voices hint at silent prayers, a sigh a door, a plagiarised speech on screen, two bottles of champagne- one underneath a bed, another in bits claiming a quietus. thousand soldiers on road, and three battles curtailed at home. in a world where winter lasts forever, orphans of life still peep through windows, a prayer in their gazes knocks on summer's door.
a sunset a day, two battles a night. someday there'll be a dawn without martyrs of a quotidian summer dissolving with hopes on the shore.
A series of chemical reactions occurring in the blink of an eye, A motherly expanse eyeing its own creation exhaling in grey to its face, An orphan of nebula homing at free all generations of refining pilgrimage, A vague anatomy of the graceful hand sighing at guilty minds seeking empathy.
Everyone seeks wholeness from an illusive entity who only feigns perfection.
I'm watching the painted skies, Creasing at uneven edges The blues from the skies Seep into my soul A poem buried into the woods The sunset rhymes with shades It is the 18th winter Yet again Spent by the bonfire Do not ask me, What I burn Or about the fuel It is the season Where they ask you The coldness of your words Or why do you write But tell me, What is poetry, If not another call from the blues.