instead of a wall, a grey wall

Eyes shut, I can tell there were once flowers here

where there was once a street

now is just a pile of grey concrete

I used to remember

pink flowers swooshing past the islands

in the middle of the world

as if between the world and me

were those pink flowers 

it didn't change, who said so?

Don't let my tenses confuse you

there were once pink flowers, that still are, living

as if frozen, piled over with concrete

as in, a way to forgetfulness is to cement

make a base and go on from there

between the world and me

there were once pink flowers

that were, that still are, cemented 

into a wall- instead. 

this shadow of yours

With a switch of a light-bulb
it disappears, like love
this shadow of yours

call onto yesterday's light

The thrill of a slumber continued in you
like a long wait about to be broken
into two, a present minute and a past hour
this is what waiting has done to us,
the ones desolate enough to call onto yesterday's light to cure the blames.

the city's waters

The city hasn't fallen and its bridges stand still
I recall, lost, as in unable to find myself
a straw in a old bag of beans

someone said walk the river trail
where there is water, there are others
as in, you will never get lost if you know
the source is always your northern compass

so I walked over to find myself again
a small whiteness over my skin
eyes, brown, like my grandfather
tortured three times to let you rule

and conquer, a kingdom fallen
princes belittled, but in the city I had found myself
we grew up singing to its bridge
off it, the fallen, had found the water

we were never silent
because we knew how to swim
if you follow the trail of the river
you will never get lost.

destitution forms the night

Destitution comes in the form of the night
knocking on a closed door, a thought,
thrown around like an old song worn into vanity
contending to your shadow as a means of reflection

desire comes in the form of the night
this is a destitute attempt at shaking away
the dust that clamped its way into my ears
I cannot hear a song and this is a song for you

death too comes in the form of the night
quiet slumber and pained turning over in bed
like the sheets have the ability to swallow over
dreams painted grey with slow breathing

destitution comes in the form of the night
running onto your shadow, like an old reflection
like assuring bearable, a shade in hell
I cannot hear a song and this is a song for you

what's wrong?
have the music stopped or am I too deaf to the same old tunes?

unnecessary

this apology that does not arrive
with limited vocabulary, like habibti,
loved one, folded twice, like a kitchen towel
left on the counter to gather dust.

a month's opener

If the new month opens itself
with better manifestation of the sunshine
does it eradicate the clouds that still float, timelessly.