here is where
you begin stumbling
somewhere
between the known
and unknown

lost and found
still a stranger walking
in someone else's shoes

yet the eyes
seem familiar

and that hat

that coat

so many identities wrapped
within this same piece of skin
the same fragile fingers
feeling in the dark

lips broken
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
...that coat



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 —
Existential.

beyond

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
never
                               open                                                  it
                please                                              
                                                  they mustn't
                                                          could not bear
               to                                                                            hear
                           you
grotesque
oil painting
made of skin and sinew and chipped memories
framed
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?
it is
                                          far
                  too
                                                                  humid
in
            here.

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.