The lights come on,
The Violins play,
And I see her spin
Like a dry leaf coming down in the wind.
But know that the tree is tall enough,
By Abel Johnson Thundil6 months ago in Poets
I told you and you didn’t listen.
You wanted to see my soul.
You wanted to know where the poems came from.
I opened it for you
By Abel Johnson Thundilabout a year ago in Poets
You're a score sheet
And I'm a piano.
I kept you on a stand and tried my best.
I am a new student,
And you’re a piece written by the devil himself.
An orange butterfly on blue pebbles,
A humming bird opening to hug a flower,
A kiss given in a dream.
A hanging lamp,
And both of us under it
Rain drops rolling down to our shoulders.
I look at the poor woman
Unable to get out of bed,
Surrounded by tubes,
And beeping machines with cool graphs.
Thinks he can swim,
And jumps into the water.
Knows he can swim,
But wears a floating donut.
They tie badminton nets tight enough,
Claim the wind doesn’t blow,
And blame themselves.
They sail the seas in the same ship
The musician playing by heart
Still keeps the book open.
The wind through the gap
Shouts for space.
The raped girl
Loudspeakers in sound proof rooms,
Apples thrown away after a single crunch.
We are something
You don’t call anymore,
And I have nothing to say.
A fly sits on the apple with brown spots.
I wave it off and eat it.
I'll wait for you
On this rusty bench near an overflowing rubbish bin,
Spray painted with black and red symbols
That look like some ancient language.