We are neither words or pieces of poems.
Nor, do we live in the water fronts of literature
our world is a hardened place where guns silence language
and love lives in the caskets of soda bubbles.
There was a time and a place in the withered island of memory
where you and I and our friends lived
where the smell of an approaching winter was home
and the sonatas of homecoming were sung
in the palimpsest of beautifully structured words.
Now, lyric and rhymes have abandoned us
and we live in the cemetery of reality,
where no matter how much we try
we will not metamorphose into our favorite poems.
Instead, we will slowly languish away
in the yellow frayed agony of life.
But to tell you all of it, there is an archipelago
where silent conversations, silken touches are guarded as a child
and I have kept a handful of clouds and a prairie of rains
with a jar full of prose still live
where amidst all kinds of ruins our secret is safe.
So, hold onto my arms and stay with me
for perhaps on some starry night, if we welt our souls deep enough,
then beyond the valley of lies and deceits
unseen and unheard, the slow moving breeze of poetry,
would still flicker, like tiny stardust in our eyes.