Asleep few are hiding in the shades of the bridge that had ruin their homes.
The awakening ones there roaming like a lion looking not for the hunt,
but to mate.
The man you see is not the man you’re seeing; it’s actually a reflection that you
wished to see; the peeling of the mask happen when you take him to your bosom
and surrender in his arms.
The woman you see is not the lady you wanted; it’s actually what you lusted for
when the night and its silence walked to welcome twilight of the dawn; she’s
actually what you wanted to possessed not to love.
When I looked in into your heart, I found the darkness there in its bluest form,
and the breath of the heart sing the song of the saints who were killed over the
centuries for being an individual.
At one corner of the city she can be found for whom you’ve been lurking for over
bodies of the dead; some rotten, some skeletal, some still holdin’ life in them.
She will invites you to her bed but for that you’ve to be need to die. She loves the
scream not the moan–a lover of death-scream she’s.
As you move being vagabond whom to choose over the graveyard of the city,
the poet moved a little in his grave; no one knows he’s there; only the dog know
who chew on his age-old bone enlarging the bullet hole in his once-thigh bone.
He screamed mimicking the screech of the tires in the mid of night.
As you moved to the dreams of the dream of the night, screeching of tires is your
call to wake up, and walked inside the darkness of who’s lying besides you.
Written for Day 21 of National/Global Poem Writing Month 2019.
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like The Color of Pomegranates and “City That Does Not Sleep,” incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.