Temporarily removed for submission.

Wait! – we have time to camouflage
In the comforting darkness, to hide, and
to clench the distant stars with the
emptiness of our fists-

to sieve the grains of sand through the
bones of our fingers, and to permit the slippery
texture of youth to wash itself, wash away,
and to quench our thirst thereafter-

you say we have time, to map the colours of
opalescent, to re-capture it on dry canvas,
and to crash the waves on our creations,

as if we really had time.

the first of drinks in days descend,
in short successions, teasing rain.
the trees and earth will crane their necks,
to receive like wine on lips, the shower.

they savour not the cool of wine-water,
for the rain itself has travelled long.
and when it lands to quench their thirst,
you hear the sounds of glass and liquor.

the rain has passed, as transient as nature.
another glass later, when the earth croaks dry.
but now, the wine has cooled their lips,
the air revived by a rain perfume…

and down are the necks of the heavy drinkers.

“how would a man live
if he neither
fully
believes in rationality,
nor in God?

how would a man resolve
the paradox of
meaningful existence
and yet, the
purposelessness it brings?

how would a man find
comfort in
fellow men who are
as equally as you,
mortal?

how would a man understand
Creation when he is
the Created,
and part of
the Plan?”

the blind one asked.

“how is it man’s obligation
to answer these doubts?

how could man not see,
that his duty is to
live,
not question,
not answer?”

the wise one reveals.

"your life is one epic poem and
if you fail to turn blood into words,
you'd look back and see yourself  
an anthology of unwritten poems."

we lurk in the shadows
of metaphors, and waltz
with words (the blank
white space before this
line is the distillation
of the words on the
page). white is the purity
of our thoughts in which the
black words stain. we wrap
our intentions in images and
grotesque images do not
appear here, like
the foot: that awkward hand-
resembling body part, arched
in some reluctant embrace
with the sooty (or sterile)
ground. it lives its underground
life, divorced from sunlight,
or naked without inhibition.
it belongs there, and not on
paper. yet we forget that
on life's tightrope,

we walk only with our feet.

Hmm

it feels almost
like a poem is
about to spill out
from my fingers (but

words clot and)

it feels almost
like

blood