Words I lost before the end of winter.
You feel a storm in your gut
That slowly eat agitated parts of your body
Then realize, you have been in a dark pit,
Where you can never be out, once it consume you,
Then you start loving it slowly,
Sharing you wet bed
And cold tears
It drank them drop by drop, satisfied
Only to realize you have been with a predator
Your friend, been a parasite
Darkness
Clouds hiding the moon and gasps
Until you paint them on your wall
Only to be fake
Like your stifling dreams.
There should be a little rain
As the drops hang on leaves
The caterpillars
Hiding beneath
From creeping cold,
Far from something that is deep
We need to know
Whether the door was open
As cold wind creep through
You are lost in the part of green,
This day is no longer available.
Try to run away from autumn
Hiding those leaves in your palm
You see the people who are poems,
People who are stories,
People who are words,
Trapped inside this notebook
With the metaphors and similes
Broken pieces scattered in lines
Haunted by the songs they sing.
Last night, rain broke my window pane,
She was roaring with sounded light
I was curling under blanket with fright
It was a stormy night.
Should have know her since we shared
The glasses of wine and colour pencils,
Has almost slept under the trees,
Druken with poems and lillies.
Eyes are cold and numb hiding a winter,
Though hands tremble with fire
Like the puzzles that don’t fit,
Edges of the pieces are tough.
With my ankles soaked in mud
I’d write myself into a storm
It ached me to grew up,
All I wanted was the child in me.
Knowlegde fell through my pencils
With infinte questions and answers,
Like the waves that never touches shore,
Through the sailing boats in the rain.
Shells carried the roots that perches
In the moon, Longing for his love,
Canopy of trees awaken their dreams
To be buried under the old rocks.
Never find poems in the night
When you slept with the windows closed,
Slurry wind taps to open the words
You filled with honey and mist,
Smiling for the repressed sorrows
Which cannot borrow the breath
Nesting in the desperate air,
Unfazed in the drunkenness of wine
You tasted yesterday night,
Only few hours to daybreak
You search the old photographs,
Inside the worn clothes
That kept you warm till last winter,
With the whistling of teakettle
You woke up in pelted desire
And find yourself in a treason.
Weightless hours spread in silence,
When the thoughts slipped out
I remember you as a ghost
Moving across the curtains of the window
Just like the autumn leaves
Echoing in silence.
Darkness grew old
White fur all over the past
Escaping from woods
To clouds like river
Sweeping past the wind
As they lighten the beds.
Found the stain on my paper
Melting into air
Like the songs sung last night.
I pulled myself back,
It was a strange kind of pull.
I looked in the mirror,
My clothes were snagged,
I saw the winter in my hair
Like a poem traveled thousands of miles.
I can’t smile
Because I didn’t see the heart.
Like weeping of the sea
I sat quietly in the doormat
My heart was wrapped with kindness
Sailing across the dreams
I stared beneath the window,
When it rained
I laid down on the grass bed
Feeling their cold breath
In my collar bones,
I never heard the birds sigh
For the songs of the wind
Then I thought
I was in wrong time.
One day I Placed a bookmark
On the page I left to write,
It was a friday
And I remember it was a novel,
With the story of untameable love,
I was endowed with words
Who relish their company
Like a Stagnated river,
Or a riveted glacier.
Often they are abstruse
Like the obscure clouds,
Like to live with my intricate thoughts
I abhorred all noises
And listened to the elopement of birds,
They cried loud,
Tinged with warmth of sunlight.
While tampering new world,
You need to revel with love
Especially the similes.
When you have put your diary open
And wonder all the night what to write
As the window outside freeze with snow
Barely talking to the wind
Listening to the calm night
You expect the lights to go off
And lie in the warmth of the table lamp
Head on the soft pages
That had been crumbled with your dreams
When it was summer, all before.
You forgot the lines, written long before
In the blue beaded book
Which you tied with the red stained thread
That once belonged to your friend
For whom you were writing so long,
Waiting in the midst of the spring,
But winter torn all the pages away.
Reflections of the street lights
Mistook the naked roads so far,
While the town slept with tales,
Non perceivable and paradoxical.
Transparent dreams Knocked their doors
Filled with desires of loneliness,
They never rest in their expedition
But forgive the wings, to get tired.
Travelers sorted out the poems of
Sunflowers in the garden,
Sleeping in the dark soil,
Beside the empty vine bottles
Touching their petals.
Bottled Metaphors 