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]