There are days now,
when there is no air
entering the wood.
There is no loss,
of the afternoon sun.
No argument,
about the bed's softness.
There is no spilling of water,
no wires hanging free.
No stories written nervously,
or read out.
There is no understanding.
No knowledge.
There is no death.
And it's soft stabs,
muted.
There are no walls,
to run parallell,
to salt lines.
Books, all burned.
All tokens given away,
All hatred sealed,
in the abyss,
of cultivated mornings.
A pill of,
discreet illness,
gulped.
There is freedom,
from the crime,
of stepping over,
the labels;
and
Cast away paper bags,
thrown in the thickness,
of disposable truths.
These objects,
have become a witness.
To my carvings of error,
on each surface, attached to my routine.
Here in this room,
are locked away,
the tenacious breaths,
of my belief.
Here in this room,
is locked away,
the brown colour of my skin,
mingling with,
the poetry of an exchange.
Opening,
like the threads of,
a braided secret.
Crushed now,
powdered,
to fine,
twinkles of oppressed,
soot.
Nothing remains here,
in this theatre of,
jute nooses,
and mute noises.
The incidents,
all browning with the,
shape of decay.
Only the pain,
a solid and real thing.
Alive sometimes,
and sometimes,
lying in wait,
for a plastic nod.
To enter its owner's
enamel.
Caked with the lime of grief and,
two coins for moons.
