echo

you are a part of me now.

and no one is to blame,

but chance alone.

its not a cause

for absurd alarm

its not obsession

nor a sense of possession

not at all.

now

you exist

like a sacred song

whose notes I will never forget

nor unlearn,

even if I tried

and when I close my eyes

fractals that I may sometimes see

will resemble how your smile might look,

outside my head

into my heart

its how my silence

could be a discreet shout,

calling out to you;

subtle yet strong,

in ways

that I can only try to do

and this time

in my muted reality,

It will be me

playing the part

of that melancholic echo-

and this will be you:

the very spaces in-between

every time that I repeat.

last rant before you expire

Fate delivered my muse in an accidental plane
and although it failed to apologize for taking too long
how can you not forgive a beautiful song
however unusual its package may be

and instantly
I knew that he is the most beautiful sound I'll ever hear
So I chained him to my ear, without him knowing

and his poetry reminded me that I have no use for TV
cause I've no time to spare
from reading
and writing
and thinking of him
in-between the intervals
of each word I encounter

and in secret,
the small flame of my matchstick
silently morphs into a roaring forest fire
fed by the past, bursting with things I've left unsaid,
fed by his cynical words in my head

and without a word,
he makes me want to write
so I write.

and when I get stuck, the image of his voice
guides me through every stumbling pause
and safely
I arrive each and every time
pulled by the illusion of his presence-
comma after comma,
cadence after cadence.

Ordinary People

7:30pm and tears are framing my eyes.
Not sad, just tired, sleepy.
(time to inject myself with energy)
Another one with a number of grammys under his belt
will be holding an arresting show
and I have in-demand patron tickets for free
everyone is excited:
my proud phone won't stop screaming
alerting me of messages dripping with envy

how does one humor irony?

when this is all i want to do:
curl up in warm a ball while reading the book of your thoughts-
I want no other company but your words
I want no other song but your song-
so I arm my brain with the fragile rhythm of your verses instead
to carry me through the glittering night ahead

And now I reach the part
where I clumsily grasp for words
to end this stalling masked as a rambling poem
so that I may start pasting on my priceless, practiced smile,
pretending that gold is worth my while

and later in the coliseum,
while standing and swaying with the eager crowd
and screaming in hope for an encore or two
My honest wish would be this:
For the echoes of my applause to travel far,
far too distant for all of them to hear or to see
for my genuine acclaim only to rest
wherever you may be.

The Sleep Cycle

in that place between being awake and falling asleep
an army of voices including mine,
whisper night after night of feeling empty,
as darkness dissolves the illusion of comfort laid
brought by the fraudulent brightness of day

and before you completely shut your sight for the night
you speak:
what is emptiness anyways, but a feeling?
an emotion, relative and unfounded
grounded in the vast, indeterminate truth
of pristine... nothingness

but the distance from your dreams
to your every waking moment-
from the safe womb of truth in your sleep
to this space of absolute uncertainty is infinitely immense-
so wide that questions cannot help but arise,
on why, seemingly without choice,
you end up always on the same path
always doing the same thing
always opening the same door
that leads to the world
of perfect... fiction or fabrication?

but answers are not quite ready to reveal themselves,
so in respect to the stillness that you cannot see
you swallow your questions instead
and just... cope.

powerless, you stand witness as the cycle endlessly repeats,
as once more the powers that be signal the deception to start
and you have no choice but succumb to the sun
as it prods your eyes with sly lights that lie

and as you breathe in the morning air,
(with its atoms, made of sparkling, shining promises)
you make room as this time, it is the darkness that dissolves
and you wake up smiling,
just as you did a thousand times before,
hopeful...
blindly believing once more.

let go.

...
...
...


the longer it lingers,
the stranger it gets.

Bullet Train

Years are not what they used to be
now they go by so fast
no considerations to pain
no emergency escapes,
no mercy, no shame

like a bullet train that never stops
no options, no stepping out

It's one and the same,
the circle of dreams that never die
tortured flesh of tattooed marks,
forever fading,
never disappearing

Never mind the nausea -
the curse of twists and turns;
swallow the acceptance
of moving without moving
Choke on it if you must-
It won't matter.

And the cold, metal tracks,
they remain proud
even as they turn to brittle rust

So swift, it slices through
passing calming air beyond reach
Seasons blurring to one eternal state
of sun and grayness and last resorts of faith

There is no choice
but to stand witness as speed creates the haze

helpless in shelter
safe in disgrace.