An Abstract

On no brooks and branches, do birds perch themselves,

Dead on painted walls and by ashes of their cigarettes,

Art in the dust, and in the scent of his perfume,

No questions asked, and only my eyes to exhume.

Such art to create, what words to weave,

Extricate my mind, from purpose and relief

Two for one, three for two,

Thought impeding possibility, loves meaning is untrue.

Our skins are flushed, with raging blood

Let them bleed in war, in fulfilled lusts.

Plead to fall in the desires of a seeker,

Who solicits a passion in eyes of the beholder.

What he bids, is a mindful sight,

For the wars that stole, and the with a blessing did they curse.

Knowing meaning of no meaning

With gazes that last for eternity.

A gypsy who could look, promised to not to speak.

He who hid his secrets, only in incoherent speeches.

He who flew, with birds over the hedges,

He taught me, to listen to the fog that settles,

The songs it hums, with yesterdays pain and today’s rubble.