Passengers to the weather

Barefoot, growing raw skin, stepping on pomegranates

Their blood, a seed, torn without trace of a middle or an end

One hand tapping on a window from the inside

Another from the outside

Passenger to the weather in you

Trucks unloaded, heavy with sins

But what we foresee is like a whip lashing without sound

And others strung for a show, supposed cure for the soul

I really cannot understand, how degrees of discrepancies

Can create bonds of similitude, flames kept alive without shivering

This room is warm, yet all I confide in are stripes as patterns

Parallel lines intersecting without ever meeting, stuck

Systems complicated, not from the step-wise, but the shortcuts

A slaughter, a slow decay of eyes calling home

Bring uniformity to this, glue together what crossed its edge

Tenses of the should’ve, could’ve, would’ve are long out of such vocabulary

The finger pointing at you, actually aimed at the door

Keys hanging, it unlocked, your gaze latching at the next big bet

Exposed, you shove your head under your knees. Your plan B and C will not have to depend on A

Winning the person, losing their being

Lemon drops, in a sea of salt

Don’t know which one treats the wound better

You’ll wander, oh you’ll be out on the fritz

Looking for three hots and a flop, every day, every week

The void is meant to be a void, the stain is meant to be a stain

What we turn to stone eventually turns us into headstones

Yet, my mind is a gun jerking with its tail

Like a kite above a breeze letting the float-less float

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Published by

S.K.

This right here, keeps me sane. You will find here, sincere thoughts mixed up with a subconscious trying to fuck it all up. I hope you understand.

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