I listen to the clamor of a broken chime,
Fingers trying to recreate a broken rhyme.
I used to feel the verse I borne,
But words fell dead in their prime.
Living each moment was I, in the past,
A zombie I move in the frozen time.
I trace and retrace the steps I did tread,
Groveling for marks in grunge and grime.
I suffer not from dementia I know,
Stuck up within my own sweet slime.
Too long has “MIRAGE” for limitations argued,
What follows now is some dead dry rime.
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Unarticulated thoughts hanging in my mind, Quivering, squirming, Spaghetti like, Noodles like, Soft, squashy… Unarticulated expression bubbl... -
Let’s write our destinies on the leaf of desire, Let’s bring back the dead from the burning pyre. Why smear some ash, some vermillion on the... -
Tensed tears and nervous faith, Downcast heart recieves, A shower of love at the metro station; The moments melt inside my mouth. A bewilder...
3 comments:
sometimes i wonder what worth it is to ever retrace those steps...
this is raw, and hits me smack on the face. how have you been?
THe feeling of feeling the verse is like walking over broken glass.
But we want to live for that, don't we?
I feel a broken-ness, and a space
filled with slices of crystal
bleeding the pulse points, then
writting poems with the life's
blood.
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