Pray tell, Janus,
how, does, it, feel?
Does, your steel's,
duplicitous, reflection, reappear?
When, the, officed, place,
your, only-thought, used to, lay,
it's, bulbous head,
blossoms, into,
a, tangible idea?
Does, the bedrock's, stele,
make, flowering mettle,
of, the insecure hay?
And, from, the ore,
did, a, garden-variety,
blacksmith, bow, kneel, and, forge,
a sword, for, you, to, falsely, slay,
the poltergeist's, of, those, evil,
sons, and, daughters, seeded by,
that, shiny, yet, mistrusted,
Monarchy of Fear?

So, pray tell, Janus,
how, does, it, feel?
Does, your steel's,
duplicitous, reflection, disappear?
When, your mettle, is, made molten?
Does, it, maim, to see,
your, valued core, first, loosen,
then, wobble, as, you, backtrack, sore,
and, falter, on hearing, the, magma mists,
of, you, hiss, and, squeal?
Is, cerulean, gold, scarlet, and, purple,
all, that, you, listen to, here?
Does, the, imperious, court,
within, your mind, reveal, only,
Knaves-Jesters-Jacks-and-Jokers?
And, does, the, gilded line,
(you speak of naught),
that, you, and, your; Kings, and, Queens, crossed, of yester,
split; all, of, your faces, in, two,
with; royal-blue, hot, i-ron, pokers?

The answers, as always, were; curved, and,
swerved. In, a, spineless, motion, with, gall, but, without, feeling, or, nerve. Pride,
watched on, unaware, of, the fall, that, lay, beyond, the cliff, where, evil, is, served.

© poormansdreams

would it seem so wrong to disassociate – to sever ties
from those closest to you, who know where to strike,
piercing through your heart? yet, I lay bare my flesh,
offering myself as a service to people, in the most
fleeting of ways. true friends are a rarity nowadays;
my eyes are unaccustomed to pretend; smiling with
practiced ease before their gaze

and I only have a few tears to shed, shielding myself
from the gossip of the rain. my unclean skin gleams
under the sun’s harsh light – I am a million desolate
stars, yearning for a miracle amidst the lull of dreams

as father time offers no gifts to the innocent, mother
nature trembles at the sight of her fragile offspring –
we, the inhuman

and life demands that you work like a machine,
yet a machine cannot be alive. but in a similar sense,
both the machine and I grow tired – so, so very tired
        ...the machine would love to disassociate.

Let's walk down a path
Of economic prosperity
Turned to wealth
And forget the person

Definition of improving
What already exists
Translates to robot creation
From human biome matrix

We look over our shoulder
What wAs once us fades
As R and D facilities erase
Try to prove their worth

At what cut in our flesh
How deep into tissue
Or sawed bone are you
Willing to purchase

A world now
                 not our own?

On the other side
The grass is always greener;
Never satisfied

People have a very sensitive nature. The seemingly insensitive people are actually very hurt people.

I rendered a recipe
Of leftovers in my mind
That happen to be
Complete garbage
Of dysfunction.
Where do I begin

It began in my heart
Where I pulled out,
Longing for safety,
Dripping clotless
Rags that made up my frame
My apron stained red.

In the middle was observed
A town of hate
Lacerating the bowels
Of everything and anything
Leaving a mighty stink, mistaking it for butter.

Towards the end a drifting
Spice of malcontent
Sprinkled from the pores
Of harmless thinkers
To crisp the tenderloins
of affection.

The oven is preheated
Everyone a dark hot mess
Needed no thawing
As the goop of alienation
Makes everyone a witness
and a vulture
     for a meal.

No matter how
un-schooled you are
Your neighbor shouting, the stranger drooling,
The cop beating, all have the same home-spun recipe and one main ingredient,
         Human, baked at 325.

Resulting in
a deus ex machina.

I walk these streets, silent and still,
Faces pass by, each chasing their will.
No words I offer, no call, no cheer,
In their worlds, they dwell—so far, so near.

Let them wander where their visions lie,
Beneath the same vast Nepali sky.
Dreams of theirs I do not intrude,
For in my quiet, I find my mood.

Am I rude to pass and not engage?
Or just a soul, freeing their stage?
Each moment they craft, I let it unfold,
A mosaic woven in threads untold.

Beneath these hills, in Kathmandu's grace,
I honor their rhythm, their time, their space.
For in this stillness, I see more clear—
A bond unspoken, yet ever near.

Let their paths shine, let them be,
As I journey within, just silently.
Nepali hearts, vast and deep,
In quiet respect, their space I keep.