A grand cluelessness that serenades tomorrow

Drains from the bathtub of being hope,

Like the little hole at the bottom left unplugged.

The temporary separation of purpose and i,

One that lay conjoined with me before i was

And after i will be,

Removes the desire to open my eyes

When the alarm crows like a morning bird.

The line in a fraction divides hope from person,

Splitting us apart in an existential, unsolvable irrationality

Which taunts from right there, out of reach

But just there, unmoving, beyond outstretched fingers

Where the grass is increasingly greener.

Years crawl by with hope right beside, but stubborn

In its self-possessive non-existence,

And I grew accustomed to the desolate,

Once perturbed, a lover of rain, as clouds drooped über alles

But brooded uncertainly upon me, before skirting around,

Drenching the unaware or the ungrateful who

Flee the rain’s dominion, only to eventually return.

I lie here as I have lain for years, my soul and heart

Worn upon my sleeve so long, they have disappeared.

A casket is an empty facade who’s sadness from death within derives

And I feel like the casket, empty of sadness

And courting death, not for the emotion it brings

But the limbo it prescribes, an innocent nothingness

That may yet deprive me of everything.




The photo is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈpraɦa]



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