The golden smell of sun on a polite weed was the temptation. Then stepped on love, blood, food, sex, intelligence, insomnia and expression. Searched you behind every mask, even in the land of masochists.
Let’s think of a river. A river has to have a source, doesn’t she? Let’s imagine this river doesn’t have a source. Neither does she go anywhere. She flows through the rocks, and the jungle. Color of the rocks? Black. The white rain looks nice with the black rocks. And the jungle is red. But the river doesn’t go anywhere, she just flows!
And I have found you. It’s time to lose you again. Like a fistful of sigh thrown into moist air, I’ll throw your thoughts – centuries and light years apart. We’ll meet again on the bank of that river – which doesn’t go anywhere.
(Won’t it ever rhyme? Even once? Let it be bad, but it should rhyme)
The finitely countless thoughtlets will form
a mist of fire
as I will move on from a deep blue funk to
an inviting pyre
when the clock strikes thirty three!