Poetry

Dream

This old acquaintance in a new garb,

when it hunts you down, you succumb;

you, just an attire for convenience,

shall succumb to the timeless rush of a dream,

like the docile earth to garbage upon its breast,

to the rodents that prowl at break of night.

 

Tomorrow shall be blue,

the unsuspecting day sheared of embroidered fringes,

and weighed down with infinite craters,

of the remains of an unfulfilled dream.

 

 

In the end nothing was worthless,

Those worthless crumbs of yesterday we threw,

or thought we threw, out our windows,

they lie dormant for now, but shall sprout in the shade,

of our worthwhile seconds to pierce our tomorrows,

to let us know for sure that nothing was ever worthless.

 

 

Arun

 

We’ve never met before,

this new hunger thrown at my feet today,

what was it, the fever outside or the fever inside,

the cookies and Jorge Borges that came with him,

or the bread and bacon he made for me?

 

It must be a hunger pulled aside and parked,

when speeding across me went time,

like huge trucks on freeways,

and now, they’re smoking,

under the embers of yesterday.