Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Lesser words, more images

What was above the bed?
The empty ceiling sheilding more questions
lying beyond in the hermit sky.

What was under the bed?
The dead cockroach flakes
warm at peace.

Residue of exhausted lungs
Like Periwinkles on your doormat
Too dear to discard that
You silently elbow them
With closed eyes.

Donot claw at the dust
Leaves grain in your nails
Look straight, keep staring

Until the dawn sweeps in
Its blinding light
And you become numb
With fresh air.