First, the mind
dies, leaves life,
but returns as a zombie covered in
festering wounds of thoughts.
Then, so the
world does not
weep before their time to weep,
the lips carry a smile invisibly sprawling.
Lamentations and blames
begin to run berserk.
The zombie is gone. And the living
stay only one step from the dead.
The Night Is Not Dark
The night feeds
the true darkness of
the recoiling soul drenched in
The night is a
little lad, infant,
still crying to suckle at
the sagging breast
of the darkling mind.
the mind disburses currencies
of tasteless milk— tongue-dead,
the noiseless body of the night.
Who says the
night is dark,
when depression plants deep pressure
in the depths of the punctured soul? Get them some light
and feed them a billion cups of it,
they who fade into the darkness in them.