By mumbling through a glance
saying more than what experienced
nestling in the loneliness of a black tea
in the waiting room of a Saturday at noon
empty in ambition like these newspapers
word has condemned imagination
By living like a fool in small talk
there's no interest in a relation
stealing love from old borderless books
in the library room of a Saturday afternoon
dust is covering like a wool blanket
wisdom has impeded youth
By hobbling in the middle of vinyl
omitting all of the bad times
drinking the usual lie the last glass
in the smoking room of a Saturday gloom
ashes between lips like soul edges
wariness has erased dreaming
YOU ARE READING
Red wine, black ink.
ŞiirI write during the nights in which insomnia hits my soul. Poems steal my words and make sadness touchable.
