Under the Pillow

Under the Pillow

Everything is just like getting through.

Pens turn into buttons –

Just let go of me writings, I am too tired now.

Too tired to think, to act, to observe –

To react; for I am not of the generous kind.

I am struggling now – my breadth heavy,

My throat sore and my senses even more numb.

And yet like the last straw

I; wrenched to my skin – dry, raw, inert thing.

Specimens of choice around me

We all got choices to make – what if I don’t?

I will mount the steps of Djongrila

Where all of them have gone praying for me

To ask them to let me be –

For all that matters to me are these;

Stars falling in flakes on the snowed fields

Of solitude and peace.

Where moments stare at me like my nemesis.

Pray not for me o the knowledgeable ones –

For I have wronged none

But for one within. So pray no one comes along

This path I have walked too far.

Pray for them o generous ones

Whom I unknowingly led in my way

For the souls who know not where they come.

Neither in a cauldron nor the bed of petals,

But an unforgiven spirit which lingers

Along the banks of the dry river bed

Lamenting such, the river may come rushing back.

To be sure if somebody had knocked

On her abode’s shackled door.

*****