Poetry

Why the days play the day
like a tape
I’ve heard just a few days ago?
Why when the evening
touches your memory

it’s like it’s touched
just like before?

And when the moon
holding night’s finger reasons
ain’t it like we’ve reasoned all before?

The morn waits with its stale bread.
The mirror with familiar eyes.
Day peeks through the keyhole,
another one, waiting
to devour some more soul.

It’s cold outside.
I pick a day from the past
choose a few moments from it
and make myself a fire.
Rummaging among words

scattered in my mind

I make your flesh my pen
and paper your bone.
It’s then I love to warm
and wake up a poem.
My fingers become nervous
as words begin to touch.
And there in them,
hidden somewhere, crying in the mind
I find a lonely feeling left behind.
I touch it for a good long time.
Silently as we share the poem
feel its throb and rhyme
memories shore up to greet the tide.
I love how it then becomes warm inside.