one hundred and two years old

one hundred and two years old
we are turned away from the face of the fire

by virtue of one document
oh, how important is paper to this land

taken out of the roots of its olives
splashed with the ink of hundreds tears

black as the day we were signed off
a place for no one, left for everyone

this is the fate of nations
for their kindness, a blow on the head

an increased hundred and two
years of pain washed out with sea-salt.

Dream ciphered

How this, I can see it clearly,
your arm, warm and hairy wrapped around my shoulder

I know it is wrong
the feeling that comes without my awakening

even with closed eyes
I can tell another woman's ring is on your finger

I don't budge
I don't open my eyes

instead I turn to look at your face
its details crafting a new explanation

to the term between the sheets
to synonyms to making love

an orgasm for the lonely times
without feeling the pangs

a throbbing of a definite sin
on a last day of fasting

but in the dream world
coded as in I want you

as in I need you
as in let me touch your body

or allow yourself to touch me once
again, even if I am sleeping

in my sleep.

stress

the weight on your chest grows
by the number of years you add

subtract the way the world moves
outside of you

trees, clouds and the stars as they align
the plans you make and keep denying yourself the chance

to make come true
this weight on your shoulders

these long nights
these thoughts that belong to humanity

coming back only to find you
lying on your back, breathing slowly

once more 

words or selves

I got written a poem
to save my soul

you tell me and I am not surprised
you feel touched

I haven't written
to fill your voids

but should up at your door
wearing all the past you don't even remember.