Again pattern's in view now,
After all.
It repeats itself, life that is.
And the paths I trotted.
I've done complaining and bickering,
I've done enjoyments of mind and flesh,
I've done terrible deeds
And none are much to show for.
And now I'm done with it all.
I've walked my way to the next station,
And now it's finally in sight.
Red tiles above white washed poles,
Posters of news on the wall,
no conductor.
No waiting travelers.
Across a field of golden grain,
Up to my waist's height.
Rusty track sings songs belonging to the birds,
When the wind blows and it shivers through.
It cuts weed-woven path under a sky of clouds.
Along the path I've seen trains passing by,
None of them mine,
But I can't help but,
Peek at the moving windows.
Slamming my bag off my shoulder,
Now sitting at the empty station bench.
The watch in trouser's pocket tells me in ticks.
In soothing ticks and tacks,
'Soon.
You're going back soon.'
Leaving behind fields of grain,
Of bodies,
dirty secrets,
Scornful laughters,
Empty bottles,
Unattended wounds on my palms,
Unsorted baggage and bad blood,
Knots at heart now rendered meaningless by the coming of the end.
Lies, oh so many.
Wind blows,
They move under the grain,
I rest my eyes shut and count,
Through ticks and tacks.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoésieI wanted to resonate some undefined emotions that ain't as tacky as a word. A small collection of poems I wrote when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
