Sunday, August 9, 2015

Writing a poem

Writing a poem was rummaging through
Words, looking for them in the discarded thoughts of the
Beggar on the corner of the red light, in the lighting of the
Smoke in an unknown bar at the end of the street, in the
Frowns of a lover with love unfulfilled, in the empty
Meanings of the street sign. Words; look for them in the
Garbage dumps, where people leave them like unsmoked
Tobacco, like an empty bottle after a heavy night of drinks; look
For them like the destitute looks for a home under every ceiling,
Under a deserted shrine; in a forgotten death. Look for them
Like a beggar rummages patience in empty garbage cans
To turn over fruits of leftover hands, yet day in and day out
They keep turning over. Keep looking. 

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