An Abandoned Dance
We have directions
Of a lost map
That leads nowhere
A miraged universe
An omnipresent pause.
Someone once told me
You are your own prison
And since then
I see birds everywhere
Sleep-walking
Chasing delusions
Shrinking into coherence.
I tore my map
wrote poems on it
And made paper-boats
That glow in moonlight
Now
My existence whirls
In an abandoned dance
And the ink-stained wings
Are drawing
Their own astral map
No comments:
Post a Comment