Her words spit out as I feign interest with a nod. Then silence, A forceful pause, Her stern gaze pries. Though I’ve learned to hate her way, My words come out wrong. “I will not go!” “I will not be who you want me to be!” We start throwing fire. No breaks, No giving in. The words revolve around My spinning head. In her house, I could barely breathe With all these windows painted closed.
This road trip to moon will not end through the shards of shattered, small prints of sleep. A ravaged nest lived behind tomorrow in necklace of past apologies. Hanging by fan was ending of today. We talked of dirty nights
(1) Tents are crowded by windows, but missing walls and a jasmine flower. (2) A window is a border between consciousness and sub-consciousness, between Ego and its annihilation. (3) A home without a window is a blind man with no
This nothingness was overwhelming. When words fail to tell the facts, only silence talks. That brutal interrogation of self to undo the decline, like a a viper in your home. The mortgaged glow of stoned infant in the exiled land,
When it comes to you landing gently in your soul, and plants its loving seed. How do you accept? With a heart full of gracious thanks that wipe away all those long, dark and lonely nights. Or treat it with