I don't plan to be luminescent,
I'd rather watch the moon from afar,
And I'd rather share the ocean's anger
when the waves are at war.
Perforated dreams -
skipped like stones, tease my sleep,
Every shimmer of disappointment
is a part of the night I keep.
With cloudy perspectives
that continue to fog my bones,
Every unnecessary attachment
speaking a narrative of its own.
I don't know what I am
under those roofless days,
Maps unfolded and doors ajar,
letting the present have a wordplay.
Life degraded to mint greys,
thankfulness and a few whys,
I'm just a bait for
the conspiring stars to further pry.
But atop a lonesome mountain
where dandelions bloom,
Spring promised to grant me a horizon
and wider room.
I found myself as further away
from the tides and the shores,
As a pen and a paper
that have never met before.*
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