Time … slippery, shiny, rushing, dark, twisted
TIME
a burst of light and … a universe is born … TIME
a world circles a yellow star, light, to dark, to light – TIME
plants grow, fruit ripens … decay – TIME
a babies first step, a grandmothers delight – TIME
work, sleep, work, not enough … time
STOP . . .I want this moment to be
I want to just BE –
I want this moment to last,
let me BE right now,
right here,
not moving …
I scream as —
I slowly fall into the next moment of time
snow falling
soft, light, slow
the lightest of breezes
brushes the flakes
against my cheeks
I am walking
to the woods
my steps
leave deep prints
in an unmarked plain
the woods are ahead
white, muted
soft, welcoming
silence, not a bird
the woods are silent
not a sound
Rain taps on my window.
A secret message to relay to me.
News with gossip of love and death.
Stories of heartbreak and redemption.
Songs of hope and murder.
Thunder rattles the windows.
And for a second.
I am alone.
Darkness.
It lived in nooks and under the stairs,
Grabbing my legs during pitch black night.
I noticed it, but the sun burned it.
It seemed to be afraid of those around me.
A smile sent it cowering,
a laugh made it shriek.
But then I was alone.
It snuck from behind me,
Muffling my cries as tears rained down.
I felt my heart crack,
My chest constricting.
Air leaving my lungs,
Head spinning fast.
Then I felt a raindrop.
A black tear.
Who knew a disability
would be missed when it was gone?
There is a time when a poem becomes more than words.
There is a day when a song becomes more than just music.
There is a place when a book becomes more than just a story.
There is a time when a phrase becomes more than a saying.
When it burries deep in your mind
A mere mention of it, a glimpse sends
Thousands of memories, feelings
Spiraling back into the present.
There is a feeling that can never be erased from your mind.
Crimson is blood.
Crimson is lovely.
Crimson is different.
Crimson is deadly.
Crimson tastes like cold liquid metal.
Crimson smells like rotting flesh.
Crimson sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
Crimson feels like ice running over your eyeball.
Crimson looks like blood.
Crimson is beautiful.
People perish.
Some at 23
Some at 89
Some while living
That day, I entered into
My favorite cafe,
city's busiest cafe.
The shelf in that corner,
Had dusty old novels, sometimes being touched for reading.
The pages brown and torn.
There are so many emotions
residing in that one cafe.
Some came here to talk for the last time.
Some to bloom their new love.
Some to make the new friends.
And others to maintain the peer,
once in a while.
That cafe which steals the attention,
Of everyone for the best of mocha and latte.
And so does, the coffee infuses different moods, in those beings
The red framed window
saw many seasons
Chirping linnets on sunny day
Clear skies and no clouds
Mere Coloured leaves and foliage
On winds of autumn.
Some vermillion and chrome
Winter, full moon and starry night
Snowflakes resided and lay
Peacefully on roof and pane
Spring arrived with more lush,
With blooms of
Cherries and chrysanthemums
Lilies full way on the lane
Rains, came with pitter patter on the
Window pane...
Who are we and
what are we differentiating all about?
When after few decades we all are going to the
same unsorted, undifferentiated soil.
Or maybe minute stars, all besides
each other in that
figurative constellation!
Sometimes I lose things.
Sometimes th little things.
Things like my ipod or my keys.
Bobby pins and chapsticks without warning or cause.
Sometimes I lose bigger things.
Things like my favorite sweater or my school bag.
Things like the reason I came into a room,
Or the memories of what I had for breakfast that morning.
Sometimes I lose my train of thought, or the point I was trying to make or an idea.
Sometimes I lose arguments.
Sometimes I lose friends.
I like to think all the things I lose go to the same place.
A plain white place full of hair ties and dollar store bracelets,
And I like to think they all wait there, patiently.
Wait there to be found.
One day I lost my passion.