Poem
Through the seepage of time
You move, become, and surrender
Inside the vortex
I see the darkness, light passes through, in the womb of a mother, lays the body of me and you. The soul surrenders and the body remains, in cores flattened, I float in the amniotic rivers, clinging onto tissues and suckling from the wrinkly robe inside us like a connected lifeline, we all become one with ourselves, in shells, everyone lay, atop the mountain our bodies charred in a fire, ashes spilled on the ground, roots grab onto the soil, expanding within their core, branches extracting nutrition from bare bodies nourishing the soil. What dies is rejuvenated again, what becomes is a story with splitting lines, formulating vectors, forming shapes, that bends the mind, to meet a point when you meet your soul and deeply immerse in a sensation of togetherness.
Learning to walk
The winds blow the flowers apart, the leaves falling in the autumn wind, and the hands move to meet. An incredible feat the man says, telling his daughter, she will have him as her protector throughout her life. To be or not to be a wife, it's the sorrows that curl up boxed in voiceless expression, the tremor of silence, that makes the thunders roar, winds yell, sorrows soar, and internal demons explode, for all that you are, is a story meant to be told, pivoting to dreams, aspirations that you aimed for, to be the ideal replica of you. Of a subtler impression that resides and gets trapped in the frontiers of the human body, and when it opens up, it takes all of you with him or her to abode, paradise, heaven, any allegory or metaphor justifies the place. A father holds his daughter’s little finger, walking with her, teaching her the requisites of living, to never give up, and to never demean herself.
Learning to sleep
The bones have formed, the arteries have moved inside the musculature, and every connecting node is a touch, packed with feelings and words, the skin has dried and encapsulated in gray scales, lacking the girth and moisture, The eyes are red and dry, and the moisture inside the eyelids reminisces stories of today, tomorrow, and yesterday. The different levels of time, spinning like a loose cloth on the spinning wheel, to be spun to knead the yarn is a collection of what you have. To coalesce and assess the deeper intentions of existence, a companion in the interiors, a friend who is not a foe; flashes and visuals appear in split seconds. to realize the truth is rather bitter, or there is always another life to repeat the cycle again.
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