i have left all behind
in great necessity
in search for a cure,
to travel with ease
no choice but to endure
the shadow of my shoulders
burdened by the memories
packed away in boxes
(we only have
… what we remember)
my closet’s clothes I could store
but not the skeletons (I wore more)
failed me were luggages of wicker
the hopes, the dreams,
like quicksilver
seeped through gaps of my life
not woven close enough together.
I have reached this land,
a far away land
between two mountains
a cooling stream
to impede my ailments’
predatory speed
the ones for which
there is no vaccine
my strand of heartache,
much different than yours
from behind your cracks,
rays of light shone
but i wade in a field,
of mines and dreams
only one strand,
one blade, different
yet all you can see
is our mass appearance
like the one inside me
belligerent,
i have
become
just
one
of
many
so we wait, our hearts quietly wait
in the wind the sun the rain we sway
singing to you who do not know
this is the the grievance of dependence.
this is the struggle of the patient.
