You sit and drink your morning cup of tea
Over-looking a clothes-line
Where memories hang out to dry
And it drips and drops
And get seeped into the soil...
Bits and pieces of your thoughts
Never to resurface again.
Are you glad you have no memory now to nurture?
Are you glad your clothes are getting dry?
Monday, October 08, 2007
wounds
Life's strange twists and turns,
The cigarette burn
Which once your raging heart
Singed onto your hand
Is now cold and dried.
The tired fingernails scratch
the wound to draw blood.
Memories flood like a deluge
Of pouring pain and misty-morning-like sounds
which whisper that you once had love.
This is all that remain
As you sip your cup of tea
And think of thoughts
Those now seem like ancient myths and tales
When all fails You keep going back
To scratch, to draw blood.
The flood begins again.
The cigarette burn
Which once your raging heart
Singed onto your hand
Is now cold and dried.
The tired fingernails scratch
the wound to draw blood.
Memories flood like a deluge
Of pouring pain and misty-morning-like sounds
which whisper that you once had love.
This is all that remain
As you sip your cup of tea
And think of thoughts
Those now seem like ancient myths and tales
When all fails You keep going back
To scratch, to draw blood.
The flood begins again.
the prelude
Bang your head against the wall,
fall for reasons that slip out of your grasp,
Only to later beck and call.
And always like the ways,
the stench of putrid days
One stares at burnt bottoms of pans,
While somewhere a pantomime plays.
Numbers on the pages that you hold,
The clammy dungeons,
the cold monster stands scythe-handed
for your life is sold.
Like the golden harvest, the silver snow,
The frail-eyed doe
Who beckons out in pleas that fall
Silently on Ovid's shores.
The lullaby from the mouth
That silently shouts
And sticks out a tongue to lick your face
Into a mesmerizing doubt.
What a start to the beginning.
fall for reasons that slip out of your grasp,
Only to later beck and call.
And always like the ways,
the stench of putrid days
One stares at burnt bottoms of pans,
While somewhere a pantomime plays.
Numbers on the pages that you hold,
The clammy dungeons,
the cold monster stands scythe-handed
for your life is sold.
Like the golden harvest, the silver snow,
The frail-eyed doe
Who beckons out in pleas that fall
Silently on Ovid's shores.
The lullaby from the mouth
That silently shouts
And sticks out a tongue to lick your face
Into a mesmerizing doubt.
What a start to the beginning.
is there time enough for time?
Is there time enough
for the raindrops to freeze in mid-air
and hang there in oblivion?
Was there ever time enough
when time ran the course of endless moments
frozen by the Instamatic flash and then tired out?
Will there ever be time enough for time
to run around endlessly
in a carousel packed with kids
whose time has just begun?
Time will stand still
when you suck in your last breath
that time allows
and then the room freezes
like the raindrop, like the smiling faces on the Polaroid.
Time stops. Your lap is over.
It's time to hand over the baton to the kids on the carousel
who know not that time is ticking on by.
for the raindrops to freeze in mid-air
and hang there in oblivion?
Was there ever time enough
when time ran the course of endless moments
frozen by the Instamatic flash and then tired out?
Will there ever be time enough for time
to run around endlessly
in a carousel packed with kids
whose time has just begun?
Time will stand still
when you suck in your last breath
that time allows
and then the room freezes
like the raindrop, like the smiling faces on the Polaroid.
Time stops. Your lap is over.
It's time to hand over the baton to the kids on the carousel
who know not that time is ticking on by.
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