Catching the light

At the moment

Of my time

I would have

I dreamt of your monkey-like

Kind eyes that glimmer with mischief

Those eyes—

They do not grace my presence

I dreamt that your ape-limbs

Were around the shoulders of my best friend

While I was forced to split my face into a grin

Words that had fallen out of the crack carried a sour taste

I dreamt of your laughter

Which sounded like a heart lifted after dropping millions of imaginary suitcases

You stuck your tongue out in order to not to taste my words,

You popped your ears to hear the pleasing notes better.

In my dream

A man could be blinded by music

Impervious to sourness, focused

On the task at hand, no, limb,

As you extended another to the face

Of someone else to create a ripple, to spread their faces

The child-like wonder of seeing a reaction

When I feel more alone

When you are

Never cool

Never been the popular one in school

Do I still love

Everything wears me out

Even you, now.

So, so tired.

I’m looking forward to an end.

A reset button.

Where there’s none.

So just an end.

That’s the goal of the bargain.

I laid my back

On a conveyor belt

And looked up

Isn’t faith about believing in

What can’t be seen?

An invisible thread of hope

Holding tangible reality together.

Halo of light that is only imaginary

Or perhaps seen from the corners of your eyes,

When you want to believe in miracles;

That myth so many subscribe to.

(When you say have some faith

Do you mean in your lies

When the bright and clear windows of your soul

Look into mine?)

You say faith is a bridge that stretches

From myself to you.

It is not an invisible thread of hope,

But it’s as tangible as your hand holding mine

You say faith is believing in you,

The you without a halo,

you say taking a leap of faith is overrated

Because I will cross that bridge you have built

With my hand in yours.

I will cross that bridge

Built of my shattered dreams and salty tears

I will not see the halo above your head

Because you will draw me to you like a black hole does the galaxy

I will hold your empty promises in my hand

And be thankful that I can at least hold a part of you

You are not a myth

Myths do not cause such tremors

In the depths of my heart

Without even being here

Blankets

Of dreams, of hope, of love

In patches

Patch it up

With cigarettes of passivity

Needles and thread

To sew the buttons

On torn uniforms

Speckled with bloodied fury

Here’s a drink to oblivion

Colours

Or the lack thereof

In the box of crayons

Make it up

With the colour of passion on wrists

Home

Never a complete quilt

Of dreams, hopes, and love

Back it up

With another kind of belonging

Like a tide that washes

Over your mind

Like a fog

That blinds your eyes

Like cold air that asphyxiates

You and dulls your senses

Like a flip switched off.

The darkness a chasm

With no beginning

And no end

Hands move as if to fill up

That black hole

With dreams and hopes

And empty promises

With eyes shut to truth.

Heavy breath sinks

Fills up that trench

Holding you in deep sleep

I sit on the rim

Of that volcano that spews

Angry red orange fire

Blood

It flows

Unto you into you on you

You wake

Unplugging that choking sink

In this home

You keep me marooned

In the moonlight

Of your palpitating

Heartbeats

With a blue-green

Wave of delight

I.

This year is not

A great year

By any measure

Except that

I kept my head up

Above the ebbing

Tide of changes.

The grains of time

Keep falling;

Time waits for no man.

Waves of difficulties

Assault my head

Like a nest of angry birds.

II.

Head ringing

Alarms sounding

I rise again

And again

Over mountains and hills

Barely rolling over the top

Into a trench

Beginning the climb anew.

The sand keeps getting

In my eyes

Roars of judgement

Clapping at my ears

Duties and disappointment

Balancing at the top of my head

Like a weight

Daring me

To be an ostrich.

III.

This year

Has not been

The worst

By any measure

Wild fire rejuvenates

Plants.

From the ashes,

I pick up the patches

Of the map

Whether it leads to treasure

Or to another hilltop

At least the latter

Is a vantage point.

The grains of sand

Will keep shifting

To the other side

Of the hourglass

Even desert sand

Might find itself one day

In the woods.

I stop watching it