i see a figure
walking in front of
me and i stare
for surely those
features are
unfamiliar to me
i stare, wonderingly
at those black
eyes and they have
seen more than me
but they still are the
same
starless
the figure's back
is hunched over
carrying invisible weight
like heavy school books
that aren't there
for a moment
an intelligent gleam
lights up those
eyes and
historical
figures dance
and mathematical
solutions appear
miscalculated
and then that figure shifts
and disappears
and a different one appears
this one's starless
eyes are the same
but in crooked arms
is a child, newly born
and it cries and cries
and it is beautiful
a symbol of
innocence, a miniature
of myself and
i realise this is myself
older
different
and then it shifts
and i am staring at
a graveyard
unmarked and uncared for
and it is an idea i
obsess with
death and
you cannot think about
death without shying from it
or obsessing with it
once again it shifts
and there is null and
i am left wondering
is my presence an
illusion?
YOU ARE READING
The Art Of Riddance
PoesíaPoetry isn't the telling of a story; it's getting rid of the emotions that long plague you. These are my emotions; they are raw. These are my stories; And this is who I am.
