residence no.101

Home
Is four cold, concrete walls
Where my salad thoughts echo,
vehemently wanting to seep and wallow
their way through the cracks
and imperfections
Only to be devoured by the fangs
of inimical and bitter silence
The same silence that stealthily creeps,
finding its way to my bed
Enveloping and shrouding my existence
My only security blanket and allegiant,
protective aegis.
Upon the corners grows the hollow, somber
darkness
Just as a black smoke slowly exudes
from hell
Filling my share of earthly volume
Putting everything in it into utter suspension.

And every night that I come to her
comforting embrace
I would read to her a poem or two
on a hungry stomach and jaded spirit
Until my glassy orbs could hold no more
of their viscous tears and fibrous
roots break out of my discolored skin
I would say, “Could anything be better than this?”
And then I would laugh out all my sorrows
and disappointments into one pretentious howl
And mock my dreams, despise my hopes
Shatter their impeccable beauty into fragments
of lethal indolence
With one stroke of the Almighty Envy and
inconsolable solitude.

Now that my entity has been disowned by
narrowing reality, and my existence claimed
by implausible nothingness
Only she can ask, “Has the spring come?”
And only she can answer when I ask,
“Has winter come?”


 01 June, 2002
 Saturday
10:30 pm