sometimes, at least the sun was so blindingly bright,
that it blotted out my memories and worries.
in those days, i knew what his hands meant,
but now, though i know their ridges seamlessly -
or the minute creases in his forehead, still what goes on
remains an enigma, uncrackable.
but these are the rainy seasons- where tears intermingle
with the rain as it flickers off my hair, and runs down my cheeks.
these are the times of the harvest, youth, renewal and change...
the times of never knowing, where the she-demon of uncertainty
rules with a scorching inferno, tearing and clawing wildly at weak men's skulls...
kissing away their chaste breath, sucking them barren of innocence and
these are the rainy seasons- times of dismal grey despair,
where the world is almost lost among the havens of dull
muted worries, recurring and churning in milky gulfs,
drowning mortals in madness and saccharine chalk
a stomach rebels, and evades decisive choreography.
his sweet-tempered soul can never stamp out my true feelings-
he, who may worship me without reason- because things aren't
supposed to come easily, feeling like a vintage record in
the Chernobyl Disaster, body wrecked, twisted all out of
shape by nuclear warfare, the tainted yellow corpses
of Hiroshima, or the milky mauve tears that fell from the sky.
the waves froth, and build up- crashing together with sea foam
and powdered layers of coffee sweetner, dusting my nose with
icing sugar- the eternal note of sadness sweeping in,
there is a saying about the wise old hermit who always kept to himself-
and for every eremite there's a diva to guide and be
a bright star! to stand fixed and unwavering... like an airplane.
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