Thursday, 17 November 2016

Queues in X-shape

This is not a poem,
It's an attempt to catch the absconding things,
It's not to ovation the run, that I do since years,
It's not to catch the far beloved one,
It's only an attempt to catch the absconding things,
To blame them,
To deposit them to the garbage.

Again, this is not a poem,
It's an attempt to ask a question of an another answer,
Is it not understandable?
This what I meant: absconding things,
Laceration of a wool scarf, that covering the forest,
It's the sea in the air, after escaping from the frame,

And why should I write a poem?
To the beauty?
To the scream?
To peeling my skin and feed it to the worms that waiting in the queue?
To your eyes?

Today,t this poem is an attempt to ignite the words I've learned from your beautiful face,
A face that asked me about the fishes after the sea escaping,
A face that teaches me the numbers,
So I couldn't filled with exile when the things abscond.
I look to this face,
Hear him,
Pray to him,
But couldn't say anything,
I'm busy trying igniting those three fishes that moldering inside my head.

Artwork: Keyvan Mahjoor

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