When you picked up
my pen, I wept.

Mercury rising,
the vespa gets ready
to strike.

This lifeless clay
wakes up, to bear the pain.

Do you remember,
when you bent down to―
touch the feet of a broken Buddha?

Before the ashes blew away.
you looked back
to make sure, it was a dream.

Stripped to the last color.
Van Gogh commits a sin.
He becomes alive.

This was my regime.
This was my echo.

Would it be too much
wanting to say hi again and
wondering how you are doing by now.

I had no choice then but
show up under-translated and cold, while
you were sleepless and feverish.
All I heard and saw then are broken ropes,
goodbyes and mockery,
just like the Dan Deacon's When I Was Done Dying
song you loved once.

From the many coffee cups
that tasted like lies even when
you were always with me,
you knew nothing is enough
even when i have always been with you
just the same.

After another day at the artificial public,
a surprising light breeze on a face.
I smile at the way our
absences sometimes show how
friends meet.

The mythful, innocent, fresh,
Painful,
Reflection of the foolishly isolated,
Stubborn,
Passionately light, sea
Cleansed my condensing soul and lure me to
Its royal seat,
In its authoritarian pride.
To its greatness;
To my desperate need;
Instead of a fulfilling admiration,
I struggled, in all anxiety,
To leave an eternally visible trace,
A scar,
A mean,
In the order in front of my almost fearful
Sight.
Though, all is lost:
As I stomp my helpless hope in the soft,
Ignorant,
Lifeless, seeds of sand
The sadly benighted,
Or, rather,
Merciless,
Fluid,
Took in, in its reign,
The task of erasing,
Tracelessly, my deeds.
Leaving me with meaningless existence,
Waiting to rot and vanish, down further deep