A page filled with nonsense
in a book of standard things,
How's one to get lost in a jungle
lush and teeming with all these
mind boggles and heartstrings?

You're in for a surprise, splendor
Forget-me-nots by the ardent river,
Babbling, waiting, plucked to give
Placed on a grave of your spring,
Winter is coming, as fall retiring,
Set in for your rude awakening -

You're meant to outgrow within
The child dies, but the man refuses
To go out and start - he fears to begin.

We forgot.

We do not distinguish

the

m e m o r i e s

From ordinary moments,
we do not discover it
until later

b e c a u s e  o f  t h e  s c a r s.

Everything we said
will be corpuscles
scattered in the wind

a n d  you  l i k e  me

will forget.

I am tired
of looking a frozen sun,
of being an

e m o t i o n a l  n o m a d

of depositing

l o v e

in something that later
transforms into absorbed
thoughts and attitudes.

But this is my
condition
and it is also

c i r c u m s t a n t i a l.