i am becoming talkative.
these self dialogues are ever so frequent.
"where do I meet you?"
why should I meet you.
these are strange days.
waking has that impure pathos of ruining my sleeping.
seven years from now.
there are reasons for tremors to subside
after the disaster,
writing has a potency of meaning nothing.
why don't keep quiet for a second?
I could if I have no audience.
early tomorrow morning,
the fire burns at a lukewarm temperature.
monologues are like earthquakes.
you don't know when to speak back.
creepy selfishness,
unattended pots of bonsai.
the rain will fall.
but don't flood the poor kids.
happy days,
the return of the tree beckons.
I won't be there for the carnival.
windy days,
some plants die while the tree remains.
some parasites live while the tree dies.
will you stay alittle longer?
I promise I'll not take long.
there is a strange murmur accompanying the wind.
it says, "when do I meet you?"
I won't know.
you are such an enigma.
be careful what you wish for.
the yesterdays are coming.
I can't react. I am reacting.
I can't run, I am running.
each day, I grow like a stubborn tree.
let's wait for the wind, haze and sun.
I had enough of waiting, though.
being free is such a lie.
verse by verse I recall,
there are no words to express.
I want to meet you.
I can't meet.
I don't have the answers.
these are verses of questions.
writing is such a chore.