My days are filled with a sense of nostalgia
for those that haven't happened yet and
longing for days gone by.

Bouyed by an effervescent iridescence
anchored to the shore of
absurd accusations
vital to self-realizations manifesting
into a festering static buzzing
                                                    to
                                                        no
                                                            end.

A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.


None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.


I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and under-world
As clothes in a washing machine.


Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
Inherited demands.


While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.

There are lives
that have died and gone to waste,
but there are also lives
that are well-lived yet already gone to waste.

As if there is none,
be it by chance
or something other.

A wondering lights up interiors;
Such abundance of articles
more-overs out of use.

No stand is clearer than
a subject nearing sight.
I am.

What lies above the tops of trees?
The field in which the bluejay flies.
Far-soaring through invisible seas
With white-foam clouds; We call the skies.

Can birds deduce the here and there?
From breezy-field to where it lies?
For when it flies up in the air,
Oh, does it know it's in the skies?

Birds care not for the 'next day'
They bend not to anxiety's sway
Be like a bird and you too may
Be happy wherever you lay.