Life, it is.
I now do hear
Its calloused body expands inside the barks of history
Myriad wars, now condensed into one heart-wrenching growl
Shakes feverishly with the aftershake of a wrathful cannon
Unkind laughter, screeching through nicotine stained teeth.
Its eyes gorged out with a four hundred year old knife
Martyrs, widows, disillusioned poets
Lonely inkpots on deserted houses
sniffing nonchalantly the smell of freshly polished boots.
Pale sun, decaffeinated with shame
And the glint of handcuff on the eyes of a child with mutilated limb.
Through this noise, runs a river of hope
Throbbing painfully with mute sadness,
As the throes of acid continue eating her leprosied flesh.
I wake up to the season of solitude.
Its quarter to ten.
The coffee I drink is flavored with nostalgia today,
My skin, lackluster with insomnia
responds feebly to the mellow winter sun.
There is none coming to meet me today.
No noise ebb as yet.
Its tangential trough sleeps flattened in my head.
until, it starts all over again.
So, Life, it is.
I now do hear it again.
Yes, of course, its calloused body has started expanding inside the barks of history again
Someone told me yesterday
Parakeets love cherry trees.
The linen pants I wear,
smell of naphthalene balls.