This being human is equivalent to dusk;
mad orange dancing on burnished metal heights of cityscape
that refuse to fade.
A meeting of light and dark as dandelions fold in on themselves,
a pathway where possibility of pain is always open.
To be completely inside the quiet corners
is confirmation not, the dense whelming of what’s to come
makes certain of it— let something happen,
while the air is filled with cricket noise;
say who you are,
it’s a melancholy hour, a song of praise for all the souls
who end alone and scattered.
What do you think of before you sleep?
Who is the first person you call when you wake?
Upon its eve, there is still the strength of day yet the softness
coming to terms with the fact that shit happens; it’s life.
At times visceral, in the hush of hooded blue,
it’s the most beautiful love story never told,
a dream cast upon the wind in search of the other.
In graphite lullaby of city, it’s both sugar and salt; the kind of place
where you could read Bukowski—
a thousand lovers but I am drunk from drinking his perfume;
it’s proof that no matter how swiftly things go downhill,
cloudiness exists only to shape our hue—
Prey to the tedium, to the dreariness of time,
thulian merging to pearl as the sky is spangled with stars;
this being human is equivalent to dusk.
Photo credits: “Just Because,” by Loui Jover, Pinterest
Kim hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a metaphor poem that begins with, ‘This being human,’ from The Guest House by Rumi. Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: The Art of Being Human @ dVerse Poets Pub