Wine sipped beneath the horizon,
with no plan to retire,
I write moments of my life the same way you glue torn out pieces of different magazines, photos and newspapers.
I glue them all onto one canvas.
I write my thoughts,
in their fragmented state,
like children coming back home…
at different times,
some not showing up,
others absent yet present in void,
others come back to perform,
to hope,
to realize and grieve
and finally say goodbye.
I write,
but when I’m done,
I look at my work with confusion.
I realize the strangeness of truth unedited,
unfashioned.
I look out
and ask
for clarity:
Do you understand the meaning of my words?
Or was the strangeness of truth pieced together
distilled, undiffused
refusing to change?
I do not judge,
for I too am afraid to look a little longer
a little deeper.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 2:10 PM UTC
Wine sipped beneath the horizon,
with no plan to retire,
I write moments of my life the same way you glue torn out pieces of different magazines, photos and newspapers.
I glue them all onto one canvas.
I write my thoughts,
in their fragmented state,
like children coming back home…
at different times,
some not showing up,
others absent yet present in void,
others come back to perform,
to hope,
to realize and grieve
and finally say goodbye.
I write,
but when I’m done,
I look at my work with confusion.
I realize the strangeness of truth unedited,
unfashioned.
I look out
and ask
for clarity:
Do you understand the meaning of my words?
Or was the strangeness of truth pieced together
distilled, undiffused
refusing to change?
I do not judge,
for I too am afraid to look a little longer
a little deeper.