Talking to lon

You are a goddess

Lurking in the cold wind

after dark

And in trees that are waving

in a show of companionship

Keeping a watch 

over your subjects

that find solace 

in the quite rustle

of absence

and giving them excuses

to weep unto themselves

with nobility.

So they can 

carry the boulder 

to the top of the hill

once again.

You are as much a god

as any of the big ones.

Failing

Failing to understand people

perhaps is our most

forgivable of failings.

Who knows people after all.

I'm sure you've heard stories 

of absolutely normal people

doing absurd things -

like giving up everything 

for something that doesn't make sense at all;

or killing someone 

over the smallest of squables.

It is okay to fail 

to understand someone.

Unless it is

someone you love.

you

you are a flowing river
a universe expanding
beyond measure,
living.
making sense of empty space.
moving. 

giving meaning to light and dark

it is good

that no one understands you

Scripted souls

When you are traveling,
to a known place
devoid of mystery
a staple conglomeration
of pleasures you have conditioned yourself 

to enjoy
people you know will not violate
your sanctuaries
and thoughts you have allowed to
mushroom in your well manicured garden.

a diversion keeps presenting itself

dangerous or beautiful who knows 

as you convince yourself to ignore it

and decide to carry on 

to your destination

a house of cliched characters

and scripted souls

to spend your life with.

layer after layer

As we peel layer after layer
of our words
actions
thoughts
insinuations
we realize the depth
of the vacuum
within.
the stories
of the soul
were supposed to be true
but who knows.

a point in time

another day drags by
like a goods train
rhythmic sound
that becomes background noise
as soon as it hits.
I am like the stoned hippie 
lying on the platform
half awake
watching it go past
just like these days.
like a chore.
I've nothing better to do.
the world keeps rambling on
about the old meaningless things.

After we're gone

The old, rented air conditioner is making a drab, monotonous sound.
Two white lights make the room, moderately sized, brightly lit.
The fan runs smoothly cutting the air, mixing the warmth generated by walls.
The temperature outside is thirty six degrees celsius at midnight. Almost.
My computer has some good music playing. Its the soundtrack of a famous movie.
The entry door to the room is slightly open. Making the air conditioner work harder.
The room isn't very organized. There are clothes lying on the bed.
Some of them hanging on each of the two chairs. A towel, another cloth to filter boiled water.
Your side of the bed is empty except some of your worn clothes lying around.
My side of the bed has me. Unable to decide how to end the day.
It started promisingly. I don't know what happened.
As it progressed, it became more and more like the other days.
That's what happens with us eventually. Isn't it. With most people I'm sure.
We become more and more of what the world is. And less and less of what we were meant to be.
We start looking like others, talking like them, thinking. We like to get lost.
It could be the comfort of anonymity, the quiet understated lure of being a part of the flow.
The river of time and inevitability. Of chatter that lubricates the vacuous spaces of our existence.
There are traces though that remain of our promise.
The sparks leave some memories. Which our children remember and talk about. After we're gone.