The bus, the room, my death
The eyes, the face, the voice
The look.
Reality bound by pain and despair,
The storm before the apocalypse,
Future glowing with darkness.
It burns when the blade parts the skin,
I bleed ashes..
The bus, the room, my death
The eyes, the face, the voice
The look
Our faces are painted,
Lively colours on the lifeless,
Naked…
Words cunningly bare but teeming with incantations.
Don’t you know your mouth spits fire?
The bus, the room, my death
The eyes, the face, the voice
The look
We transcend meaning and coherence,
Lost in belonging,
Despondent.
Silence played on minor chords,
I relish your presence.
In your eyes celestial projections,
In your face the present,
In your voice horoscopes.
In the bus we were well met,
In the room I watched,
In my death I hold secrets.
The look…our restless oblivion.
I bleed ashes.
Authors Note
Whenever I write I draw from strong meaningful experiences that I cannot communicate merely by words, in art I believe something that language cannot capture seeps through, like injecting an experience from myself straight to you the reader. Many times these experiences linger in a form of haunting dreams and imagination or voices. That has not happened much when it came to me writing poems but has come across a lot in my novel writing. I found writing this poem rewarding and freeing in an artistic sense. This is probably my fourth poem ever, I rarely write poems but when I do it is from a place I rarely visit and scary for me to. I will have to admit there is a phobia there of emotional intensity, or losing myself in the idea that not a word I put to paper resonates even close to the experience I want to communicate.