Brother, Sister, I abandon you from our nest.
My morning sorrows are now in the drops of mist.
Body that I used to accommodate is in fiction.
Waterfall reflects my soul in bright light of the father.
Mother, close the back yard door.
I will not come…
Birds grown old.
There could not be me, or everything changes before we get to come back.
What smiles were there, only some I refused to doubt
So bring back what I have forgotten to remember
Or you may never be able to see me again.
Or I may never see you again.
The door forever remains open, it is whether we choose to peek, to ignore, to stand aside or turn away. What persists must revitalise in the past, yet it often insists upon hobbling alone, somehow trying to grow upon some present moment of nothingness, of nothing caused. Never acknowledging that threshold it truly is.
The jealous kid;
The imagination of the child;
The anchor of the past;
The fear of not dying.
Which tense is our homeland?
Lost in transition.
Lost in the wrong
Lost in all the decays
Of losing, of missing.
Let us dig out
Of the future
To destroy them
So that the good
In all that
Which is forever
Alone, and unknown,
And Before dying,