The trees are mad silhouettes against the rouge pink sky;
perhaps they too need emptying,
at a glance
the silvery shadow of a lake seems not shallow, seems
most capable of serious thought,
I haven’t quite been able to comprehend—
under the mulberry with a pocketful of maybes.
Dusk has the ability to turn even a simple person like myself
into a philosopher, its quiet charm,
ever lit, ever awake with a pulsing heart,
could it be that flowers sometimes bloom merely
to cheer up the ground?
Cigarettes and caesura burn so as to extinguish the mind,
in a world where coffee is cold
and morning bittersweet; because otherwise it would mean
evolving of men gained us almost nothing.
Maybe we are not meant to be selfish, despite the brutality
of Spring, dull roots stirring,
sultry, tearful and at times childish peals of laughter
where oat fields
meet in a stately fashion with the breeze—
just maybe we are meant to sift chaos in the headspace,
one can opt to keep strength to himself
or be open to sharing odes with the world,
how much could it hurt?
I am sometimes noisy like the wind, tempestuous to a fault,
every impulse, every notion,
every flaw flowing from the wound, scarlet wishes gone awry,
why do we forget that we are each gifted with the ability
to start over with nothing?
Maybe we have known all along, like graphite sugar clouds
and need a little bit of reminding; maybe,
primordial affairs of the young and old, for now,
maybe is good enough.
Photo credits: Aerial photography of mountains and body of water, Unsplash
Posted for Open Link LIVE – November Edition @dVerse Poets Pub