I can feel it.
Right now,
after all these
stormed for a while imprecations,
underneath
this
heart wasteland,
a dead river
passes
hushes and splashes
of once overfull
passion.
An attitude of abasement,
a sharpened notion
on a tip of perception
vivificates a line
on timeless sand.
The fragile scar
divides
my holy land
on learnt
and never dared,
on much to see
and scared,
on “on”
and “off”,
on “yes”
or “no”,
on hell ago
and times to go.
on wars
and crows
with double souls,
on tender strokes
and rendered shocks,
where time
can pile
the jiffs of clocks
and heal the scar,
a young rimrock.
October 2, 2011
