A Bottle Of Water And A Radio That Cries
A Bottle Of Water And A Radio That Cries
Cutting through pages of my bright hours, setting out of my mind on a train to nowhere, I refrain.
I smile every morning while turning on the “FM Boredom” in my brain,
witnessing the tidy wheels of my “job” starting to rotate and drain
the adequate daily pain in my throat about something I retain.
Up and shooting the breeze I am, a little about being eighty-sixed
off a fictional grilling with one way and about something mixed,
still quite similar, with my life but relating on both the ways to get it fixed.
Having a vending machine in fate, working reversely, one might bob his head
while answering to the question, “why do we need to rethink life other than what God already said?”
Something quite there reminds me of her.
Letting off timidity on my eyelids, I bent my neck to an emotional clown; the funny sky,
bearing a little moist but coy smell. It had no birds talking of the dead. I don’t feel right.
I actually see a large clammy hall of butterflies with an aggregate of eligible underdogs of the night.
They aren’t bright. Maybe, sometimes one needs to be “not only one”, to let life be not left to molder.
That’s why still I keep putting her out with my damp breaths, tickling her ears, when I picture
a spacious highway without yellow lines before my eyes from over her shoulder.
It just makes me bolder.
