Introspection/Mindfulness/Distraction
Time is no Superman
Slugs of a Tired Mind
M y kettle of words cannot brew poetry
Water turning stone. stone — stoner
My mind jumps the pebbles to meet
the sea. Stumbling.
But is there any birth without labour?!
They are angst pumping metaphor
Some know it even when they don’t
Every time the wind blows, the leaves
twist ’n twirl and slowly unfurl to meet the earth
Each time differently.
These are moments turning antique
Glistening beads of pearl
Gossamer sheets of present
Extending a tired arm to touch the future
I am always easy dying, what is difficult
is to live
dangling between past and speculation
shunning the world who overlooks my fragile bones
who now only grows wings to fly
Gone are days when sturdy shoulders ate
from responsibility’s plate
Winter can be a grieving woman
bidding adieu to fallen leaves, awaiting spring
She writes poetry on ice
Pristine white, stony cold
The comfort of un-revealed
In between fatigue and spirit
Hugging bare trees looking for warmth
Soft silky snow flakes sticking to her
scalp keratin
She has learned not to complain when Spring
arrives late, deficient bones looking for solitude
No there isn’t any.
In this noisy, chaotic, cacophonous world
Solitude is winter’s shadow
The world thinks it’s only them that matters
I look around and up for the sky
To see things I cannot
To feel things I don’t touch
Smell a fragrance carried by a distant wind…..
As I await my vision to meet me
My flying hair faces the other world
I do not see….
Counting days in fifteen and eternity.
Time is no Superman.
“Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on” — Jonathan Safran Foer
