People say I'm a rock.
Sitting here, I wait, not knowing who.
My heart ached, like ink drop in water.
The rain glow over eastern gate,
defeaning the sorrowful people.
Downed in solitary,
the muffle cannot shatter my loneliness.

—————————————
I thought I was unduly bent
with the burden on my head
No heart had ears that understood
the tales my face had said

I thought the path had sifted me
away from smoother stones
Where everything is forsaken
and no one truly owns

I thought and thought and thought some more
till I no longer; saw
For eyes, that I knew not I had
widened to stirring awe

In tumblements, I had arrived
to the hall of cynosures
where souls lit up in endurance
and patience opened doors

Accepted for defectiveness
revered for differences
Collected, all, in being dispersed,
closer for distances

Had fate and path not made me, me
and storms made waves I ride
and then I took all I held in
and looked around, outside

It brings you. where you need to be
it gives, what you require;
To then, become what you were, always
waiting, beyond desire.

©️Arshia
13.7.2020
Tokyo

For unexpected realizations, I am #thankful

Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the lake,
There was a peony.
Amidst a solitary night, bound by sorrow,
I Inquire the peony.
For whom do you shed your petals and leaves,
for whom do you bloom?

Sitting ashore, I offer my friend a cup of wine,
I ask what place he is headed to.
To my regret, there is no-one to hear.

I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.

The solitary beat
of a beating heart

The solitary heart
of a heartless man

The solitary man
of a crowded world

The solitary world
of a ludicrous dream

The solitary dream
of hideous music

The solitary music
of incoherent beats

The solitary beat
of a beating heart