HOURS VII

Posted on in My Creative Content, Poetry

how come after all these years, you do not know my
favourite flower

how come after all these years, i still walk down
life’s road and think what if all this is God’s dream and he is walking down
the street and anytime now, He will wake

how come this silly little poem – i miss no one, i
love no one, this could be any day, this could be any place, i could be anyone,
who am i? – that came to me on an August afternoon – i was so lonely – while i
was in transit that i told to an unforgettable friend in September that very
same year while we conversed late into the night – that i wrote three years ago
still holds true as the years go by

how come after all these years, after He moved
within me, Him who cannot be grasped that prayers can be letters falling off my
tongue,
letters falling off my tongue
         letters falling off me
                  letters falling off
              letters falling
      letters
mere letters – not yet words
mere letters, singular impressions marking my very existence

and how come, now that i know what is pure,
i sink deeper and deeper into human filth –
the more i know the light,
the more i retreat into the darkness

who am i?

i have been thinking to myself
i have been thinking to myself
things i wouldn’t dare say or write or want to think again

i have been thinking to myself
if today i died, who would mourn me?
there are days i go without a phone call or a text
and when i do get one, or two, i stare at the phone and do nothing

i have been thinking to myself
i have really been thinking to myself
that there should be no shame in any of our existence –

in the end, this is my word, the human body is a
shroud (especially unto itself)

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