There came a time when I realized the river flowed outwards
The west became Sahara and east Bombay.
The golden chops grinned in greed.
My lips were full in windy cold winter,
and you became hoarding supply-less supply.
what’s the law of flight
when do we walk on the sky
when does a feather bloom like cupid wing
bow in hand trying to set a good impression
only to face moons alone at night
i thought i shot for me but i guess i shot for them
who will strike me with their arrow
when does a bow become a boomerang
is the ocean really a river
am i only a bridge
meet me on common ground,
with a feather & tool of shade in hand
while the birds sync in parallel mind.
let the universe whisper
sweet nothings between our skin.
let the brown flesh merge
like water and land.
may our bodies be a field
of poppies as we dream of once again...
i feel like a pine tree
jazz dancing in my roots
body of bark
branches of composite
leaves of creation
the wind blows like a hurricane
though im rooted in the ground
my conifer lie in silence awaiting...
it was on a windy day
the book dismembered on cobblestone
pages whipping in the sky
yet the sun shined bright
the chaos of the world and the chaos of the mind but yet finding calmness
they’re in a place of lost hopes,
silent drums on weekday vacation,
in rooms full to the brim,
nightmares on sunny days.
palms mismatched like large and small.
we breathe on different intervals,
you have never seen yourself like me.
i don’t like what i see.
ever been with someone and you both knew you weren’t a match? there’s no toxicity, you just both know and it’s never spoken. not doves in love, but pigeons in partnership
Old age doesn’t turn a new body into an elder.
Only when you write on mirrors do you learn
your skin aint rough yet.
You made of glass and bone and I can see through tints.
Your flesh is baby soft,
and your mind lacks a room of study,
so when you are gifted new books,
you don’t know where to put them,
you don’t know how to read them,
you burn them.
Your mirror is still glass,
the aluminum silvering is still in a stone,
and the pen is somehow in my hand.
Have you ever had the experience of attempting to have a mature conversation with someone who surprisingly hasn’t found that maturity yet; They lack the ability to see themselves so they project and it ends up being your unwilling responsibility to metaphorically hold up the mirror?