Dish soap mix melting on paint can lids.
A siphoned sight of dreams develop over the frame.
Bright and muted colors muddle the lens.
Forearm hairs prickle and goose flesh pop, pop, pops.
Crackling tissue paper stuffed in used cardboard toilet paper rolls.
While the smoothness of pouring honey is ruined by fly paper fingers.
Breathing is labored, then rhythmic.
Electric caresses shoot out to nerve endings, and back again.
Then, all of a sudden:
Standing diminutive within a black hole.
Looking upward, outward, inward,
but not downward.
As soon as you do that, you become unmoored and move through space-time at a speed faster than light.
Which is a construct that is yet undiscovered and deemed impossible.
Yet, it is, was, and forever will be,
despite our best efforts to derail dreams through the application of reason.
“Confide in You”
You constantly apprise me,
of all your life’s defeats.
You itemize injustice,
casting open ended Tweets.
Your tactless tirades, tiresome.
Your suffering’s not unique.
If you look past your nose for once,
there are others seeking peace.
The egocentric predicament,
barely allows for this.
A slave to self-absorbed importance,
a textbook Narcissist.
It seems like wasted energy,
your reserve, an endless pit.
Try empathy on for size,
perhaps, a better fit?
Turning my back on derision.
Facebook clap backs are no longer important.
Moving through the virtual landscape.
Sorting through distractions,
pausing to catch a breath.
Meanwhile, sands slip silently into the collection reservoir below.
Last time I checked, there wasn’t as much sand remaining.
Looking for Monday’s magic.
Seems elusive to me.
Treadmills and sidewalks,
sprawling venues of apathy.
The sunlight remains,
despite the shadows.
In fact, the sun causes the shadows.
Cook Up a Storm
Scribbles by Afzal Moolla
Poems, poets, poetry, writing, poetry challenges