When nights come, nights like this one,
huge, unending, black with doubt.
when nights come, nights like this,
with parallel pains of many kind,
different strands within the same
kind of unease, with new difference, as each act
passes into new discomfort.
The beginning and the end are known
as the issue is not forced,
thinking is not stretched to the point
of meaning or revelation,
and each act of meaningful pain remains
unresolved, an act of subterfuge,
just a jostled attempt with words.
These nights are no more than rhetorical questions
with unresolved knots and depth less depths.
No metaphysical notes, no existential lines
streak the sky of my nights.
I only ask for a favour, one favour.
Come.
i could say "it's very good" - but i prefer to say "it touches me deeply", right now this seems to be the only truth i care about. explosive ending.
ReplyDeleteRoxana, hi.
ReplyDeleteThese "poems" are no more than constructions of my personal mental states, from time to time and hence, the exigencies that prompt them are 'real'.however, invariably rhetorical flourishes and some over dramatic effects do creep in.i do not actually convey the effects that situations and life has on others apart from my own constructions of that. thus, i find these are just confessions. the 'you' is variable, could be many i know or want to be in proximity with. the 'i' is usually me.
anyway, thanks as always.