Making sense

Things stand in their own way.
A little difficult to imagine
but only possible to reality.
And big words take shape
to explain this small situation.
The thought of breaking free
goes about like a lone crane
holding on to the retreating rays.
Fear shines through
the impending darkness.
But night rules out everything.
There is only place for shadows here.
They hold hands
circle into protection
from a sadness
that starts to make sense.

Silence beckons

Silence beckons the broken:
the ones broken from inside.
Hope lands like a curious pod
on a deserted planet
with runnels of despair.
Darkness from the core
paints the world
out of a grim easel.
Words arrive like bogies
with weak links
that have come a long way.
And a siren waits to set off
inside every metaphor.

Understanding

Crowding around a memory that bleeds
are characters half drawn from past.
A dream like this happens in a labyrinth
and I flit like a butterfly
against a storm as I try understanding.
No, not possible.
Time moves slow and ugly
like a caterpillar.
It drives its point.

Half life

A couple is at the togetherness table.
And a lonely coffee cup fumes.
Mist steams through winter.
Wind keeps its hands in pockets.
And the ground listens to the feet
write a story — a doctor's prescription
for true love — with a half life.

Sign boards shine

The sign boards shine
like the lines in a poem.
The cold scaffold of the moment
rings a hum reaching the depths.
A lost self reappears
in a dragon belch of the past.
It is an octopus self
playing a symphony of discord.

The clouds finally deliver the message.
It is eons late and is in Morse code
of stars dotting the sky.
Terrible significance of the self
reruns its stories but
the insignificance arrives finally
as a complete picture.

The answers

From among the waste lands
The Datura trumpets blow the nectar
The unsaid tries to have its say
The unexpressed inflicts violence
The questions are missing
but here we are, the answers.

Some dreams

Some dreams are really nightmares.
Piercing bamboos that grow
from the night's black soil.

A gleaming medieval sword
escapes the glass case of a museum
and beheads the defenses I erect.
Worst happens wrongly here.
Nothing that I have prepared for.
The days are brightest but
the memories of a dreary evening
are up everywhere.

Tonight is its domain.
The battle is tilted
towards the other.
I have to only comeback
with a sharper scythe.