Long have been the days since he
stopped looking back to view the being
of his previous existence. He chooses to
disregard time and so-
He discovers his order only in the
midst of the anarchy of a random
life and the apathy of unresolved
conflicts. These days, he prefers
to sit in libraries, high on drugs
whose names he does not know,
a world he does not care to know.
Confined in rows of books, he sees
his soul burning in the breeze
that blows to move the pine trees
outside. He watches the doctor with
his medical research, the teenage girl
with her pink lips and heavy
He will probably return with a notebook
like the blue collared boy here. Maybe,
he would write again but then, good things
are over too fast and what is poetry if
it is painful?
He sits with his thoughts trapped in
between books that are not his own.
On the wall at the end of the library
is a picture of an old lady from some
ancient tribe that he does not recognize.
Whoever she is, she is a happy woman-
unlike the poet that cries as he looks
at her crooked smile and heavy tin
jewelery. Even her thin blackish hair
and bony arms are more beautiful than
he could ever be.