She was dancing with the devil
Foxtrotting in those 7-inch heels
Wearing nothing but her tattered guilt
And a crown to which infidels kneel.

While you were sleeping

He was playing god on a wooden table
Addressing his unholy congregation
Picking a necktie to choke his ego
While trying to outsmart an angry nation.

While you were sleeping

They were painting the moon red
For a puppet show that's about to start
All the blood-stained curtains were washed
For the blind audience to play their part.

While you were sleeping

You were walking on empty pavements
Letting all of hell to break loose
You traded reality for fleeting figments
Now you're trapped in dreams you don't get to choose.

I went back
But, my mind wandered
Off to seek a haven
Where this pieces would fit

Those were the only days
Where I was a statue
And not a godforsaken flesh
In a straitjacket

Parents,
Are the place where you go
As a storm coming in
Heading your way
Wreaking you over,
Bashing your reality,
Being an acid in your little lemon life,
They are the white limbo
You heart wants to go
Are not they?

I am at the place
Where I gauge the years to empty
Where it is dark
Where it is white
Where no roses grow
Where no crows caw
Where my heart vacant,
A kenopsia
(Turning the page)
(I turn the page)

What is home?

Today I pondered Oblivion. If the stars will collapse on themselves, if the nothingness between the asteroids and the dust lining the moons and the inhuman complexity that is Time will all convolute and dissolve into existential chaos, then what is the point? If space time does not have an infinitely stretching edge like an anti gravitational sea eclipsing the earth, then neither does humanity. So Europe and America and Africa are tiny islands in an everlasting ocean; single ants in an interminable universe. So my home is even more exponentially tiny: my state is a mere indention in an all-embracing dirt path so I am a receding footprint in a fossil of human existance. My poems are specks of dust on a planet of amorphous matter.

It was a graveyard and overcast sky
and I sat with book and accordian in hand,
hearing the world with its screams
swallow up around me.
The people whom I had loved and lost,
Papa with his silver eyes
Mama her sharp tongue and tough love
Rudy whose hair the colour of lemons
and questioned why, the living and dead,
worlds apart, yet both did not have a choice.
I stood and screamed so that everything shook
the burning rubble and ash and dust
willing my words to bring it all back
but it did not come, and my breath rose in gasps.
Death had looked me in the eye and said,
“It’s not time yet.”
I would shut my eyes to the world
only decades later.
I will understand that there was hate and pain
there was sadness
but even more so, there was love and joy.
I will know that the people I loved had reason
to kiss goodbye
whether it was their own hurt
or saw it as a necessity,
but they were never truly gone from me
always somewhere nearby,
in the thick and thin
frail and worn
of times.
I would learn
to forgive Death that day.
I will understand that
and I will be hurt,
but I will be okay.

~

Not all deaths are sad.
Some, meant to ease their own pain,
Are called freedom.
While some,
Meant to ease the pain of others,
Are called love.

© BT

The truth is
No one saves anyone
In the end
We all rot...