"sweatdrops" poems
I walked myself to a night club because i was terribly weary.
I had a lot of wine with ice cubes and i did not feel sorry.
You weren't there you didn't see.
You didn't share you didn't feel.
My life was swirling around in a glass of red wine.
If i could've spoken only with vowel sound, i wouldn't have gone blind.
The song was good people were dancing.
Music was the food that i'd been seeking.
In the twilights of the dance floor i felt alone.
They could not see my core or where i belonged.
I held the empty air once again and embodied your present to dance with.
My sweatdrops were falling like rain as i danced the song away so weird.
Another year had gone by and you weren't there.
I didn't want to try as much as you didn't want to share.
Share your days with me like you always had before.
Though the man in me kept saying you were what i had been seeking for.
It was an american melody i danced away.
Just a cliché melancholy to drag me away.
From the man i had been.
From you that i had seen.
Was it the wine, the music, or me?
Run out of time, had i?
You weren't there...
You didn't see...
You didn't share...
You didn't feel...
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
Silence,
In the mind
Is what he strives for-
Ushering sweet shushings
Destined to fall-
Desperately,
Hopelessly,
On deaf membranes-
Eardrums cluttered
And cloistered
By juggling run rampart-
Amuk.
The color of blood
Seeps down his forhead-
Sweatdrops glistening
Their crimson beauty-
Reminders that his sight
Is still unseen-
Cataracts unsheathed
Beneath Winter's chilling kiss
Of endless doubt and drought.
The frozen beauty captivates,
Encapsulates his mind,
And all his eyes roll back,
And his hands are useless.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
A spiralling ascent
Along the world's edge
Sweatdrops fall
To a below without sunlight
Boot dust
Llamas labour under supply packs
Hoof beat lantern dance
Shadows cast on the cliff face
Distorted we loom
Above the mute fog of humanity
Summitous
Awash in the final dawn
The old Inca smiling sprouts his knife
Ancient tapestral landscape
Exhales into us
Curvously infolding
The old Inca holds out his hands
The knife cuts horizontally
Reality opens like a book upon a tabletop
There, he says,
Pointing to the infinite space between where the sky in the past met the land
Timespace lies like a discarded washcloth
And we see dimly through the mists—
There, he says,
Pizarro could not follow us,
And we see dimly through the mists—
The neon lights of
Neoqusqo
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 11:24 AM UTC