What makes you
leave your bed
and
smoke like
it's your last
at night?

Images of a
former love?

Chances
you could've take?

Words you could've
repeatedly
said?

Or committing
another bad
poem?

And so on,
and so on.

There is something about
the silence of the night,
it could be your hollow body,
your exhausted
mechanism,
or
the only hope that
you keep holding onto.

How many cigarettes
does it really take?

How many hours?

How many
scenarios playing
back and forth?

It stops when
you don't realize
that there are
still so many
questions left
for you or
for someone or
for something
to answer.

And in the daylight,
you deal with all that's
unimportant.

In the night,
there's nothing more
important
than dealing
with
knowing what it
takes to sleep
rather
than
exhaustion.

Me,
I try to
take them
all with me.

I don't know why...

The moon in its endearing way
Encircles us on breathless string along
Or why the tides cry ill each night
Only to be in court for the hearing at dawn

The rushing lawns of browning green
Or why they need a trim to fall
Or the crisping leaves of sweeping scenes
And why they whisper around me at all

The rock and stone the smoothing ore
Beneath waters rushing to and fro
No crackling snow left sparks alive
No mountain stream running by itself alone

But out of all of these things which I do not know
Of what and why and whethering seems
Like the lines of growing seeds to sow
Why it's your eyes behind that I wish to know

I don't.

That one wilting rose in a blooming batch
That one wrong stroke in a masterpiece
That one broken pixel in your screen
That one sour grape in a bunch of sweet ones
That one useless child
That useless child, with no worth to this family
~19/5/21

When the blind heart wanted to express remorse on behalf of the mind to which it was a slave, the eyes sobbed.