From your wicked slumber

    I bid you rise


    So vague

    So premature

    The window blinds disappear

    Singing a faraway tune

    Wring your dress,

    The wind wouldn’t


    Stand by the flame

    From a fountain

    Upward blow the sax

    Carry your legs

    Move with the tune



    Minutes lead the way

    Drown the nebula

    Void nature

    Blind pupil

    Brighter dusk

    Raindrops suspended

    Air filtering

    Though obscured

    Seest thou



Some Answers

Oh my…

Why do I spread the longing so thin?

Why do I have to keep anticipating so?

Why would the words cease when they need be spoken?

When is it right; is it even wrong now?

Why do the doubts hover as air
molecules above me?

Where would I be; where would we be in a little while?

What would you say when I reiterate the angels’ proclamation?

When can I offer songs, as a sweet smelling incense, burning till the morrow?

Would dark colours unite and commune in thoughts as one?

How far would the road be; yet to be trodden?

Would I find that which I seek, or would despair be the soutane that I put on?

Would our fore-bears turn and look upon us with joy on their faces

Or would the griots from amongst them banish us from either world when a tale has touched their ears?

Would this darkness, familiar to those in Sheol, never set foot in my niche?

Would you think it as I do, or think it as you would?

Would the encrypted message lying beneath the thought be perceived?

Would I rid my mind of these questions?