Drycicles

Unspoken words have no life beneath the blink-of-an-eye

They wither and pass like the fog on the hills, like the mist

On the Meadows; but if you silently stay, if you cling to the moment

You will hear what`s been spoken in that split of a second.

It`s neverending, truly a giant library of Babel where all are just copies

With the tiniest of mistakes, there are the true “love you’s” to the wrong person

There are the “goodbyes” that were not meant to break. The maelstrom of

Unspoken words

The immensely stratified web whose chords are tiny mistranslated transcripts

Just await to be written. You can’t be wrong when you write, this is the convention

That sometimes needs another edition of the book to be pushed on the table.

Thus I lay all my thoughts as they come, as they go, let it fly – says the voice

Let it flow. And one day, just one day, looking back I will see what was right

Not to write, but to know.

G.

Tell me what’s below the surface since

I’m drowning inside out, shout at me louder

Talk to me faster, isn’t that what is life

All about?

I forgot my own name and my body’s desire,

Irrespective of doubt, open eyes closing shut

To contain all the fire that was dripped from

The fire, isn’t that what is life all

About?

G.

Its shape, a cube. The vibe of yesterday still keeps on

Fumigating

It’s neverending foolish fugue.

The flames of remembering

Still burn through the faltering

Flakes

Mistakes, there were so many, then a few

Dear stupid God, why did you keep it

Secret

Now if I only knew what lies at the corners

Of a memory

It’s scary, isn’t it? I wouldn’t know, my thoughts and feelings

are kindly hidden, frozen under

And even this intrusive banter,

Goes with snow.

Push the nano-knife.

Thrust the blade.

Swivel second life

Roll the clade.

Push the nano-knife

Cut the heart

Roll the mini-strife

Stick the sticky dart.

pushthenanoknifethrustthebladeswivelsecondliferolltheclade

pushthenanoknifecuttheheartrolltheministrifestickthestickydart

The gaze was crimson dark, beside the firelight,

Small molecules of wine were scattered in the air,

And shards of glass with ruby cork,

And crystal air

Spiced-up the atmosphere of fight

Underneath the floors smelled of

Phenols

From a corner, one could feel

When the blade in vain reached the vein,

How beautiful it was

The flower vase

That gaze

Every snowflake that falls is a silent, repetitive goodbye,

Laying quietly, lavishly on the fields of tomorrow,

On the fields of today filled with ice; oozing

Memories stay,

Memories linger,

Memories fly.

I have no recollection of the first winter of farewells, nor the one after,

And still cover this ignorance with bouts of irrepressible shout,

To my miserable girth that gave birth to this laughter,

For a second the snow fills itself with a ridicule doubt

There must be a kill-switch for my cathartic experience,

This puny absurd schizophrenic collection,

And to every snowflake that imposed this detection,

I project cannibalistic feelings of eternal deliverance.

Thus I swallow each silent repetitive goodbye,

Laying quietly, lavishly on the fields of tomorrow,

Hello memories dearest…

Here is a story about

My first memory in snow, the tiniest of angels;

And a print of my boot

Then the heavens cried ice, because God always could,

And I wouldn’t.

So one ran and that’s it, they agreed,

Minuscule memories buried as if it’s never been,

Never did.

Temporarily lost in small mountains of rust

Scintillating with age,

Freshly adorned with a coat of white powder,

Was it small molecules of ice, was it snow,

Was it dust?

Screaming in agony, shrieking memories,

Shouting louder

This is what I recall of the past; I once made memory in snow

As a small angel; and a print with my boot,

Never cried, never would,

Never could