Tuesday, September 9, 2014


Early September it is
a season of lost lies
and dreary distances
I flip through my book
and try to find that poem
that hides in shame
behind cursed cliche
red rose crushed between
two pages, bookmarks
a promise. Where is it? The truth.
The daily tells me of a city
that doesn't know my name
that is ashamed
to call me its own.

It is amusing to see
the birds hop
on my window sill
every evening
they flutter in air
with open arms
while I look in angst
measuring the spaces
between my fingers.
Well past the midnight
the street lamp trespasses
into my bedroom
that is my lone fortress,
in a sea of strangers
who would waft past me
on a new day
I hope to hear your call
things got to finish soon
until then everything
is a sleeping pill
that won't keep me awake.

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