fragility

fragility

A Poem by AnonHimMoose

woman in the supermarket

knocks at the watermelon

asking for fruitful meal where

seeds stain the smiles of friends

red water flows in the blood she has gathered;

 

worker in her smoking break

puffs the smoke with its bends

that releases anxieties she cannot breath

begging her imagination to be consistent

as the tobacco that she inhales to stab her world;

 

scientist bending his back at the laptop

a screen that reflects all that he has sweated

lines and numbers stretching on the graphs

that are his oracles and his dull magicians

for the evening manifestation of his cryptic flesh;

 

walker passing by the alley

his sight has no space for bricks

clay under his soles echoes with geographies

where his decisions eroded  the mother rock 

in fragments that do not amalgamate in diamonds;

 

there is a lady that says of herself

that she has been capable of feeling love

with blank eyes flashing toward no landscape

talks to her friends to receive their balsam voices

that she will not have to point her mistakes again;

 

an unfinished poet savouring his letters

wails his cry in the womb of engulfing art

for the sentences he had failed to change

that made the singing ghost he is split into

marching toward  a canvas betraying its crimes;

 

a crowd of youngsters has gathered

they drink and play music, hint on some moves

that would be the ticket for more joy to deliver

they speak with words they have heard around

trying to make them vibrate with no shallowness;

 

among them one stand asides

he has joined for he feared loneliness

but he hears in the laughs of his mates

a dark corner where his thoughts dive

with a promethean promise he blindly embraces;

 

the city screams with advertisements

with noses lifted up the glasses gleam on

the clothes stir with the breeze of honking cars

but no cover has yet found how to stitch together

the meat that has no mind to know itself

only veins that are sprouting to drink the air;

 

a person that is already dead in its gaze

is not destroyed by voices tattooing their guillotine.

© 2019 AnonHimMoose


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Added on July 14, 2019
Last Updated on July 14, 2019

Author

AnonHimMoose
AnonHimMoose

prague, Czech Republic



About
i once believed in stories_stories are what we are made of and it is in stories that we constantly seek to make ourselves a present to be given to others_but i have lost faith in how i can be represen.. more..

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