The posthumous Love


Every word that I have written so far
has been a mirror story of us
a cosmic map, that travels to you
My lost treasure of the youth

Thats how i trace you, in poetry
Pushing myself to a rebirth
falling in love with treachery
over and over again

I’ve made liquid nicknames for
the incomparable feelings of Earth
the peculiar surrealism of suffering

 

And I cannot inherit back
my childhood from a photo-album
what I was, what i am

 

is transferred in silence
and most probably lost
like all living things
I accept the change of it all

that which expands, contracts
like a flock of birds in flight
I am at ease, I am alarmed

you hold your own hand in smiles
And I cannot do that, I’m not you
the pieces of my soul
Were already given to words

lost on words like a poet
writing after midnight
not destined the next morning

to remember what possessed him
not able to make up all the alphabets
that changed his life as the
seconds overtake me

I will be that irregular snowflake
as misunderstood as the
hands of the clock

the golden speck in sunlight
the stranger who smiled
at me, or with me, strangely.

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