🚪

Tell those latecomers,
they are too late.

No longer welcome.

The longing that once burned for them,
now sleeps in ashes they cannot revive.

Even beauty,
once able to undo me,
now passes by,
unseen,
untouched.

For what fails to arrive when it’s needed,
doesn’t arrive at all.

Excessive waiting takes its toll,
and the loss is permanent.

⌛️

My current life is in rewind mode.
I’m looking for answers. I’m looking for codes.
Calmness for me is like a ghost.
I’m looking for answers. They are foremost.

There’s no need for sorrow, no need for cry.
It counts for nothing. It's all a lie.
I need to find the very twist.
But time doesn’t slow down at least.

I’m going backwards. My memory’s tricky.
It keeps all in mind. It is so sticky.
I rake up all: how loved, how fought,
How I forgave, and how I sought.

I spilled into ash, but I got up.
I saved myself, but others closed up.
I’m digging, throwing, looking for answers.
It beats me whole. It’s like a cancer.

What if that's all a fiction, a wrong?
Like the Atlantis, sunk too long.
A legend, which is almost forgotten.
And me, who wasn’t loved as a rotten.

And now I’m going back again,
Ridiculous, clumsy, unhelpful, mundane.  
My world relocated a long time ago.
It’s an emptiness warehouse, a storage of Echo.

To forge a poem,
A bar not resinous.
To steal a fire
From top a precipice.
To bear the heat
Of finite flames.
Embrace the hurt,
Engulf the pain.
Feel your wrist
Become alight,
Feel your hand
Begin to write,
Feel your thoughts
Escape the brink,
And feel your pen
Run off its ink.
Sparked inspiration
Ignites internal,
And burning paper
Becomes infernal.
Ashes, scorching
Stack in piles,
And ashen writing
Line in files.
A dying fire
Has lost its flare,
So write again
If you so dare.
Just light your hand
Ablaze again,
Consume the torch,
And raise your pen.