The Morgue

Cris cross. It sways to the wind and the truck by the side of the road

The lifeless situations become divine.

They become in color, and move towards blind

Sun setting in the east, Is that not odd?

Shining from the inside in the dead cold of the frostbite.

Rip it to shreds and pass it towards the morgue.

Hands pressed in my back, clawing and gnawing

The night has moved and the moon Mojave

Summer respite in the form of a suicide.

And placed my foot on the stars , all in one go.

Cries of joy, a birth of the child and a death of a star

The saints move spiraling like the cracking skulls

Besides this where else would you be?

Back in the haystack, moving towards the day

On your  horse, and she smeared with a lipstick

Kisses you all the way.

Children you are the saviours, believe not in the morgue, it comes when you are old. Old as I or perhaps even more. The day when you move like the wind. Silent and whispering. In potent portions. You have slept through it all again.

Wake and make up my fragments whole.

Why the endless struggle to make my bread

In the colours of the dawn, your blood and mine are but same

And what of the nights where there were no one to guard my weeping heart.

Remains of what I may call it, it never moves. It just stays.

Like my love of the world. In where I am now. The moment un-justifiable.

And the lamps burn through the night.

Crows huddle together like ghosts. And smoke follows them as they swarm.

The messengers of my heart. Please make it to my funeral.

I promise a most splendid moment.

And all I did was to falter. Inside once. Outside infinity.