Something ignites inside me each night
when the clock strikes twelve.
I dive into the world where it was only me,
my little world,
a cup of coffee with Mum,
deodar and oak trees next to my window, greeting me;
a walk down the stony path with my dog,
my own bookshelf—
Austen, Peacock, Plath, Wilde
crowding them mostly;
sweet-burnt memories of that night—
The fresh bruises fade in that voyage,
The bruises that thrum my chest all day long.
Except at this time,
when I go back to my world,
away from this synthetic Earth—
where the pale yet warmly painted stories still roam
through the electric wires of the smoky city.
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||
