Will-o’-the-wisp

It’s strange
how…
in the homelike refuge
of a single inelaborate dream…

it is too easy
to dismantle, on pure instinct,
and thereby dismiss

what you
somewhere.. still
remember to be
the unshakable dominion
of the sum
of unforgiving reality..

as simply, the absurd deceit
of an unimportant nightmare

within a dream.

 

From Book IV

Echo

I thought
to myself yesterday
that just like it was
before, you probably wouldn’t
have agreed to listen
to my many trifling tales
of weakness
and petty failures,
just like you never shared
your harder stories
with me, unlike
you did with her, my
mother, who once
used to be
your friend… and
once divulged to me,
one of your secrets. And I saw
that you neither spoke,
nor sought to listen because
you were
too ashamed to reveal
your scars and
too proud to believe that
I might have a few
of my own…

   
Perhaps…
you didn’t want us
to become as alike
as we
turned out to be.

   
Perhaps…
you didn’t want me
in some places
you used
to be.

 

 

From Book IV

The Perfect Blue

The idea
of Paradise, as
a place
where the ideal
is reality… seems
something we’d like
to imagine
as going somewhere
that was dreamed or envisioned,
or once, really was.. immaculate…

   

and some place
we usually know,
can no longer be
as perfect, on arrival
there.

   

   

   

The last time
we saw each other,
we spoke
of his childhood
in a boarding school,
where mornings came before
the sun, at times
before the break of dawn
and then,
there was routine for some
chosen, in clearing dust
from prayer halls, and watering
the stretches of flowers that
lined the grounds, before
the other children
were up.

    

    

    

I assumed
it must have been tiring
to rise so early, each day,
and then do that much work,
to which,
to my surprise,
he said
that he used to enjoy it,
and explained
that the feel
of fresh, open air…
that bathed the body,
and the gleam
of that dim, first light… that
illumined the skies
would allow
his young mind
to be lively! and
free…

   

   

   

It’s difficult
at times, to tell
dreams from reality..
but I know
I asked if he
would like to revisit
those faraway gardens
once again… one
early morning, with me
this time.

   

Or was I..
just waiting
for the next time
I’d see him..
and only dreamed
that I had already
asked..?

   

   

   

Someone told me
that life
is supposed to be
a procession…
of
unbearable passing..
and I claimed that it would’ve
been better
to never have
existed, but once
one does…
there’s too much
to try
to hold near, to simply
go away…
until we bid adieu
to Heaven… that hides
in the impossibility
of complete return
to the elusive fulfillment
of some mysterious places
on this uncaring earth.

 

 

From Book IV