A muse plays my harp
strings made of veins and thread,
cobblestones line over my body
having bric-a-bracs in the evening,

Rain splashes over shelves
and ego vapourizes like helium,
pyres burn my effigy tonight
stardust shines the bubble
tearing ashes like paper,

Warheads crack my halo from within
setting me up like the haze,
my lip syncs with the beats
dancing my limbs as it heeds away,

Clouds shower blessings upon my head
the chakra opens as if unbolted by wind,
clear conscience reigns inside me
and photos set us apart like fences .

Scared of everything that will become.
Of everything I have dreamed to achieve.
Scared that if it comes, will I endure it?
Do I have the capability to ?
and what if I don’t get it?
What will I do then?
What if everything i have dreamed of vapourizes?
Like the smoke I puff away…
Without any traces?
Without leaving anything behind.
Who survives in a world without an identity.
It’s those who have the courage to live like they don’t care.
But, I do. I do care of what will become.
It’s scary. It’s real. It natural.
But then why can’t i feel it?
Why doesnt my hair stand when I think about it?
I’m going through this like a metro train. So fast.
Not giving any thoughts to the thoughts that come to me.
That is. Because i think I’m scared.

The heat around, lullabies the jubilant,
Sings the nocturnal to sleep.
Vapourizes the sweat of mine into you, yours into me.

Sweet was the taste that reminds me of your skin,
Sour was your core;
You clothed so spicy,
But bitter were your lips,
As you whispered you glimpsed Hope.

Would Hope bring forth this heat,
Suffocating, sweaty,
Devoid of air any-
yet addicts, depresses.

Is it Despair then?
The tumbling motion,
Ever retrogressive,
Past crumbling skyscrapers into atoms,
To a colloid of Anti-Brightness.

Is Despair not cold?
A chilling, shaking hand-
Skin withered, cut, wounded, ******;
Gangrene, pus, hair-draped;
Which claws up the ******* to the throat,
Feels the very pipe of wind, presses;
Pressure, pain, excruciating-
As chokes the distressed damsel while drinking the poison.

Well, supposedly, the heat might be the rage,
Which vaporized all,
And that left behind might be the despair, cold,
As I glimpse Death.

-Ruksana Saryak