A Collection of Poems

036: Miss

This poem is about memory, my most favorite subject for any poem that I make. Missing something or someone is a passion that evokes a very strong feeling of either happiness or sadness. It enables us to touch the core of our emotions and tap this enormous power within us that makes us alive. In turn, we create and enshroud ourselves with an atmosphere of our thoughts, living in a moment of our personal space without anyone or anything bothering that special moment. However, in this moment, we are honest, and when that honesty is broken, our whole selves are corrupted and we are vulnerable, and this is why we cry when we miss something or someone. The very thought of missing (not to mention some background music for accompaniment) is what I love to do every night, and it refreshes me before I sleep.

XXXVI

MISS

When I wake up in daylight

And think of fleeting time

The thoughts of you come closer

Till your spell touches mine

I see a hundred landscapes

Of places minds have gone

And sense the bare affection

In breaths of action done

I read a million letters

Of ev'ry league of love

And hold the nested shelter

Of hummingbirds and doves

I touch the frozen sculptures

The statues' aging face

With sentimental value

Of years, and months, and days

I touch the light of darkness

In embered ashes' glow

With hopes of shiv'ring sunfire

Or maybe warm as snow

I notice piles of papers

Invis'ble notes and files;

Collect the white-washed writings

And paint the road of miles

I taste a dash of saffron

Of sweet lettuce and sauce

And bitter truffled palates

An appetite of loss

I hear the flutes and oboes

Guitars of stringed descent

And orchestra of passions

Melodious folds' lament

I smell the gust of amber

The rosewater in flame

And paths of musky odors

A forest-scented name

I feel the crystal raindrop

Through skulls of agony

And touch emollient waters

In wells of memory

Immerse, rubious tension

Immerse, sapphirine list

Immerse, adamantine soul

In pleochroic mist

And should prize be a cracking

Of fine dust in the air,

I will polish the gemstones'

Chatoyancy of stare