Old Poem



Underneath a grim sky

Fluid with specks of dust

And the rapture of a fertile moon

I wonder will it always be thus?


My face pale and wane

My eyes dull and lifeless like a sharks

A mouth that speaks of trivial things

With a high timid voice

That understands nothing of words


The tender dialect of lovers

Will it ever move past my lips again?

Tiny shards of wisdom

That linger and endow me

With strange enchantments

Will I ever be inspired again?


My hands occupy my time with work

Daily I labor

For nothing in particular

Like a barren woman

Who tracks her ovulation

Even knowing she shall never bare any fruit

I am empty like that woman

And just as insatiable


Each night I fall into consecrated bliss

Yet even my dreams are ashen and uninspired

Silence gives me hope

With its ominous…

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The eyes

Of lost friends,

Recoil on assembly

A bony outline

Devoid of luminance

Greetings spent

Without abandonment

Conversations worn

As a mendicant’s knees

This censorious womb

Within which no life

Wrought could thrive

Births the end

Of all possibility