Mother hostility where may I find peace.
Father Rage is this world truly mine.
Mother hostility.
Have I no utility?
Father Rage.
Must I just fill the page?
Emotion distilling my image.
So i take my pen unwillingly.
I write for love, not for promise of wage.
I conjure creativity.
Savage vocabulary makes me mage.
Brain that devours demons my veiled abilities.
The skull it's human cage.
Running down from the bus station.
I wasn't going with her anymore.
Those sunday sunsets wouldn't be watched together.
She had to do it alone, make her way there and back.
Sitting in the polished plastic with her backpack .
looking down at her cellphone.
In that constant transit of all places.
Waiting to get on, waiting to get off.
I wasn't there, and trip was made by her alone.
I wouldn't accompany her and instead spend this time apart.
The big block of a bus station with a seat just for her.
Clock hands callus, morning hours develop rash.
She's getting ready to leave.
She's waiting in the line with her ticket out.
She's anticipating the way back.
To her childhood home.
Then she's gone back to the old smoke.
Rolling through the valley,
lost in her thoughts.
Away from me her husband.
Every hour of this precious hour of this life,
intangible uncatchable.
I am unable to convey this love.
Caught in the chaotic vortex of my own mind.
Caught in those transit points of thought.
Those big waiting lounges in my head.
I am separated just watching time pour out.
She is miles away.
The road bellows from Dutra highway.
Telling me it's time.
speaking with a mouth full of cars and buses,
with the anger of berms on fire.
shouting- You fool! Follow her.
They were clean and found their class
I was dirty and couldn't get the stains out
Flatting was a nightmare
School was disorganized
Every minute of the day was a competition
they all pretended it wasn't covering it up
with sincere sounding -I wish you well's
Organizing their clique and consensus
The walls went up and we would learn
In big halls where our inequities would come to the surface
We would pretend they didn't reflect out identities
But the campus chatter imposed it all into us
And their lines and queues went nowhere
Their accolades addicted those with the wit
Deep need for academic validation
There was no spot for me
This house is spread
Life times have passed
A child slowly gets transformed by a thousand days
Each room a presence of shade
Sleep was the only goal
The furniture was old
There was filth on the carpet
Wallpaper was shed like snake skin
The bulbs reflected colors they shouldn't
Nothing was settled there were no boundaries
The physical structure was just an invitation to mould
The only thing holding it together was a little love
Log caught fire
Slim tiny shards of bark
Spark and then crackle liberating flame
Lips extend corners rise
The flame is starting to consolidate
darkish evidence of carbonized wood underneath
before the teeth became exposed a similar darkness
Joy is hot and needs to be felt
The red ember starts chomping into the wood
The full smile burning into the witness
attraction is warm and inviting
smokey and well stoked
We prepared the food
And kept the fires going
friends used past affections like ovens
I used my own past love for a bonfire
Reigniting it in a declaration
Stoking my heart as if it were the hearth
The fire grew and grew
Yet the smoke dissipated
I wanted to see a smile as warm as those flames
I wanted to prepare food that would offer nutrition to the soul
The red coals and the white ones cooked the meat and dishes
She turned to me and gave me that smile
A smile that echoed fertility
that renewed faith
that smoothed me out
That said thank you without saying thank you.
The stains of dampness shadow mark the treebark.
It writes a language across the roughness not decipherable.
Describing how the slow growth of things can claim effortlessly.
Into long cracked lines of bark, the infiltration has written.
It writes of the nature of the earth and all creatures in their movement.
Of long times in the glory of excess
and long times in the throes of desperate lack.
Of the cumulatory effect of a million days.
Each one embedded somewhere into the tree bark,
like a decent flick of ink.
To become a book written in dampness, moss and lichen.
A silent onomatopeia etched into the trunk.
Appearing and disappearing like timid seasons.
A manifestation of mystical magic.
A waning affection.
