here is where
you begin stumbling
between the known
lost and found
still a stranger walking
in someone else's shoes
yet the eyes
and that hat
so many identities wrapped
within this same piece of skin
the same fragile fingers
feeling in the dark
by unspoken words
of passion buried
in the corridors
of your mind
here is where
you are kneeling
at the feet of expectations
you can never
hope to meet
still a stranger
but that hat
Harry Rout 2020
The sound of splashing water
as it reunites with the shore,
The scent of freshly-bloomed garden
as the wind revs them,
The taste of sweet, juicy tangerines,
crisp as plucked from its tree
The glimpse of human eyes
as intimate interaction sparks
Oh, to feel these all —
It’s a good day.
Look up there, really look!
The line of your sight and the path that it took.
Try to understand the truth of life’s vocation.
While you grasp the depths of its bitter isolation.
There is nothing up there, nothing watching.
Just a barren universe, casually mocking.
Existence, is a catalog of aligned integration.
Just a system of knowledge and past information.
Your ability to experience in all of its brilliance.
Is merely the outcome of your required existence.
good and bad
right and wrong
love and hate
beautiful and ugly
god and devil
is an undivided me
at home with my self
They said the world would end in the year 2012
And called it doomsday
They said that the sky would collapse on itself
That humankind’s existence would end
But 2012 came and life went on
I don’t know if mankind is cursed or blessed to have lived this long
Cursed to have seen man’s demise
Cursed to have witnessed the beauty of nature
As it fades away, one forest at a time
Or blessed to have received many chances
To right past wrongs
Blessed to always receive forgiveness
Without constant improvement
Sometimes I wonder
Will 2012 come 8 years later?
i feel like we’re all alone
i feel like i could dissolve
sallow sunken hollow caves caked in mud
and a crackled mouth
streaked with white and a sort of quiet mortification
could not bear
made of skin and sinew and chipped memories
limp and greasy drapes
it is reflected on all four sides
it moves along with you
it blocks your view
look closely beyond the canvas and you might glimpse the perfect paper people
with their stapler smiles
and buzzing hums
against their ceramic tiles
how’s the weather over there, friend?
poets write with care
as if they have control
as if they know something
when they know nothing.
we know nothing.
and that's why we create.
Offspring! to all of creation.
A child! of its own constellation,
In the universe's own desperation,
To define a single location!
Along the dismount of concentration,
The ever growing degradation,
Bestowed the gift of observation,
And bound only by its imagination.
Grown by it's internal elevation.
Tainted by surrounding information
But powered! to stand up! and be it's salvation.