All the things that left unsaid
are now nuanced
and written in the pamphlet of my figurative mind
can turn into an allegory.
On a random alcoholic autumn evening,
I unfurl my stomach and twist it into knots
and turn on the television
Just to play the opening scene of Vivre Sa Vie.
It did make want to live.
Live in a film where nothing happens,
til the rum stopped flowing through my veins.
The kafka nightmare no longer haunts me,
when I'm on my insalubrious bed,
And I no longer wave my hand,
but look back at your visage
"Adieu" is all you tell me
With such insouciance.
Perhaps at the existential cafe,
We'll meet again,
Just to find out you still walk the narrow line.
Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months
Despite the all the things left unsaid.
What good is that, when it's inexplicable
And there's no use of my tedious poetry.
So that it turns into mush, and I fall short,
On a lazy summer evening again.
Like that I repeat my Samsāra cycle.
