A basket a basket who's owner yo
A basket you are on the ground...
seems old and tired... The wind plays on you
.. its sound horrible and panic...
a basket ...a basket who's owner you?
Lives with man, animal or nobody!
Stop, don't cry.. don't mow...
still here, under rains in the winter...
still there, under the burning sun's beams.
In the past, women carried you in her hand...walks with you,
talks to you, complains to you...
A basket, where is your friend?
Stroll everything, without caring in time...
A basket, what is your secret? Who's owner you?
You are lone with sad and sorrow...
looking for what? The time was gone
...children, people and dogs stamp for you?
A basket hurries up your turn is coming?
About the Creator
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar2 days ago in Feast
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