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A Pear Unborn

It must be something to do with the day
the month the year,
and not me.
It must be...
The wind that sweeps ashtrays off tables
The sun that lovingly cries and leaves.
Never seen such rigour in nature
Never seen such anger.

It must be that red balloons escape
through tiny palms
to sway and dance with the wind
to pop and release life
to stand against the energy of all things

to let go and suicide.
Looking with hope at the loss of souls
the many yawns of the shop keepers.

There is a slight hole in the sky today
I guess; where all the emptiness
in the universe squeezes from within.
Is this why the date is the same with the month
and the year?
I feel catastrophe near.
There is bound to be a hole in the sky
like needlestick injury.
There is a life, there was a soul
and now in their porcupine basements
the dread of a lonely end awaits the jury.

The neverending shower of tears,
fears, a smear on the door of the public toilet.
Mind the gap as mortality passes us by
in timid handshakes.
The arrival gate, the departure fate.
And when the cafes close
tomatoes turn into paste
colours fly and mix on the graffiti wall.

Barbecue smoke and burnt onions
speak through your eyes
the shisha unlit, the coal on your fingers.
That balcony we sat at, overlooking the park
that moment we silently pretended to share
It must have had something to do with the day.
In cubes I tried to jump out of reality
by that bus stop further from Trafalgar.

Nothing adds up, nothing fractures the wholesomeness.
Few ever attempted this crucifixion of words
In my name, I speak
through the bright mirrors in stranger eyes
now lost in that mist surrounding the air,
in rhyme and verse
all that makes sense, above the fence
in my modest tone.

Born in humid waters of your town,
the sea I longed to drown in,
you never sae the traveller's inn, in me.
Tonight I will watch construction in progress.
Words I spared in a long while
splash blogged onto the page.
Wood concrete and bolts to hold me,
to tear me from these words ever again.

Here ends the wish deprived dream,
here finds chaos its place.
In fleece, sheep like fields.
Your numbnes and flattery I had longer for.
No love poem or no single building
stands in this burning arena of rage.
Smile a better end, in your jokes
Put your shadows on, resolve with your tokes.

Poet Laureate,
Once supposed to write a poem foursome
Now she has no clues to dedicate to rebels.
To find a new way, a new life
to kiss serenity on the cheek
and hand a poison ivy branch
in lively phase
gruesome daze.

Learn more about this author, Hande Saglam.
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