Stillness slowly freezes into unhidden whirls,
Time cleverly clusters into countable pieces,
Dreams dimly unfold into written stories,
Tonight, we are held apart doubtfully,
by silence, moments and thoughts.
Sleepless nights curl warmly,
Into nothingness of ‘we’,
‘Love’ is just a word,
Resurrecting into,
Something-ness,
standing alone,
standing alone,
between us.
It's rooted,
and nailed,
Waiting,
in 'You'
in 'Me'.
and,
in,
I.
and,
in,
I.
That something-ness intrigues me...with its ambiguous formation, stillness... is it hope or death? it pierces me like an arrow flying downward from heaven to the painful schism, that is the 'I'... the form of the diminishing lines is the poem..
ReplyDelete"I" is the remainder.
ReplyDelete