Why?

Why to touch what has
settled into a coil -
why to add to a stagnation?

I see you crawl
around your point -
slowly you’re inching away.

Not further. Not behind.
Elsewhere, on the finite globe,
the mind that has us, two thoughts.

Why to look through the same lens 
when I want it further
and you need it larger?

These venomous trails,
that were once our ballads
are broken compasses, that’s all.

I don’t mind waking up to a blur.
Why do I care to clean
your glasses?

Limited

I’m limited to you -
a lake you pass by
and absent-minded,
throw pebbles at.

You do not care
for the momentary ripples
they create -
you think they’d rob me,
expanding my dimensions.

Yet within the nebulous
you hunt yourself.

We're Too Poor This Christmas

We’re too poor this Christmas.
All we own is a breath,
long, tedious and green,
a piece of bunting, a futile chain.
We hang it between
two distant numbers on a clock.

And then as we look at it for long,
we get creative.
With a pair of lurid scissors, we chop
this decoration into hyphens;
we use the little lengths
to contrast the grotesque walls
of the rooms that occupy 
us.

The Essence of Winter

I am Winter, scripting dryness,
smearing a white silence
upon life.

That right now,
a million violins are grinding
air into tiny chips of music,
stings me -

I cover what I cannot undo:
my poetry is a shroud
upon this chaos.

Maybe I've Succumbed

What is it that always deals me the past?
I look back, thinking it’s a choice I make.
And yet in moments like these, aghast, 
I feel the choice is a trap, a snake.

Light comes, though is perpetually late
in telling me the truth that I have sought.
What all it brings me in a laden plate 
is the mirth of Time, a murky plot.

What use is knowing what’s forever lost!
The night sky - a story, a lie, the past.
I look; am I merely not the frost
that settles for an ever - melting part?

The leash of time has had me but numbed -
maybe my death is past, maybe I’ve succumbed.

I've Run Out of Irony

I’ve run out of irony.
I’ve run into the tyranny
of existence.

Stopped short
at the nothing that 
pervades my lungs -

I see every reckless passage
that unfolds before me.
I must walk,

I must help it fill
with my breath
until

there’s none
and I am done
being or not being.

There Isn't Enough of You

There isn’t enough of you in the mould.
Not that I still bank on the liquid gold -
it is only that I notice a power
reducing our eternity to an hour,
long like the lines that spell my sorrows,
long like your lines that tell tomorrows.
When you’re right here, I do not see enough -
enough of you, and it gets really tough
to watch more and more of you getting sold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.

The edges of the leaves I keep in books
shrink into syllables, these little crooks -
every song that I have been beading
into our story is only weeding
out the necessity for meaning -
and the urgency of all feeling
that I contain, that I confess to you.
I’ve now known that no music is true -
pain isn’t sung, hurt remains untold.
There isn’t enough of you in the mould.