THIRTY EIGHT : After siesta

Afternoons of forsaken thoughts
Residues collected in siestas
Sluggishly recollected as the milk boils,
To the aroma of instant coffee.

Returning to the earth
of highly fissured existence
A body full of cracks and tears
Stuck together with glue of hope.

Smiles return with awakened faculties.
In the joy of simply living.

THIRTY SEVEN : Water

When water drops fall
Perfumed words emerge from the ground
Filtering into everything.
Into the day,
Into the mind of my tired body.
Kicking dust,
Washing away from the spot
Grime burdened over weeks.

An hour of patience
With only sun as a companion
Only a stain remains
Where so lovingly
It fell for a few moments.
Water dripping from washed linen
Trying to grow roots
In the heat of summers glory.

THIRTY SIX : Sleepless

The dawn was just breaking
I had not slept the night
Awake I waited
For the sun to burn the mist.

Through the hours
The world had slept
I had painted words
Into verses of poems

Just as the sun emerged
The pen flew from my hands
The pages turned blank,
And there were voices all around.

It was afternoon when I woke
After the sleepless night.

THIRTY FIVE : Untitled

The truth sears into my flesh,
I wait as usual for pain to pass.
Now alone without the murmur of people
Cluttering space; mentally present, omnipresent.
Lying miserable on a rock face,
sordid as the crystal drops fall in sheets.

Pungent thoughts enter through
Leaving behind debris of curses and cries.
What I had, what I have!
A truth? One measly truth,
Garnered from a miserable existence.
Without reason have weathered imaginary battles
Built within the mind,
Starved with a stomach full and tight

How often I wanted to die!
There is stench of decay
Of burning flesh
Tonight I have born again,
Purified in the heat of living.

One who talks of death.
Seldom takes his life.

THIRTY FOUR : In silence

Silence …
It feels like the empty spaces
Vacant thoughts, blank and foreboding.
Things that have been said,
And then a sudden gap;
All words fall silent.
Cradling heads in sorrow
Look of burdened unfriendly empathy
Voices that flow constantly
When removed leave voids
In time and in space

If ever silence were to be victor,
Let it be in final moments
When darkness covers everything
And syllables lose meanings.

THIRTY THREE : Death of a day

Days mature like people,
Early morning ablutions of childhood,
Faintly remembered age of youth,
And the final irony, the gift of night
Born out of the death of days.

Surprising we have lived, together
Outliving the mornings of ending days
Absorbing, assimilating, expelling.
Yet not more than having lived,
To talk of hunger.

With the death of a day
Comes sleep for eight hours
Then the return to what so ever happens
Of the newborn day, puking and crying

Remember, days mature like people.