I scribble down answers
To non-existent questions,
Gulp them down with water,
Drown myself in peaceful solitude,
Intoxicate myself with pitch black nothingness
That drinks bestow so eagerly.
Like liquid nitrogen,
They smoke up my throat,
And I puff white clouds out again.
The cold winds echo
In my hollow soul,
Asking to be satiated
With fenestrane windows,
Asking for light
The sky cannot give
After receiving my white cloud puff gifts.
Asking for light
Called up from distant glances of memory,
Sparks that have long since died down.
My lungs fill up with water,
And exponentially grow my answers,
But they do not fill my hollow holed soul,
Not when they only ever pass through.
Perhaps someday,
Solid brick will find its way
Down the path I’ve hidden so well
To fill the gaping space
Oblivious to matter.
Perhaps the lingering question
I’ve repressed with metal locks
Shall emerge presently
To coax in the puzzle piece that fits
Once rust licks the strength off the chains.
Perhaps if I’d swallowed more oxygen,
My questions would emerge faster,
But my hands drift to carbonated soda cans
And shrug off the rust that has crusted,
And fortify chain after chain.
YOU ARE READING
Cityscape
PoetryA collection of poems written in the city. Written for city folk who don't quite belong. And for everyone else who fall in between the cracks of 'here' and 'there.'
