by Moh’d Gaki
“I think about you,
as I also think about a thousand other things,
for you are but a tune,
trying to make a sound,
midst a thousand other symphonies.
I think of how you,
Like agony and anger,
Like thirst and hunger
Like fear, like wars,
Like a bottle of poison
Like a loaded pistol in the hand of a child,
Like an insomniac thought on the back of one’s mind,
Like a roaring storm on the far horizon,
Are incessant.
You were chaotic,
Thus, You were beautiful,
But only when alone,
Since,
In the orchestra of the brain
And the audience of the night,
You are an absolute wrong,
that once seemed right.
I also think of the story,
Of how you ended up here
Of how “there was a kingdom
Colonized by the rain
Raided by fear,
Inhabited by martyrs
and watered with tears.
And you were its queen:
A fragile monarch,
made of broken old branches
and fallen tree leafs.
Every time the wind whistled,
Breaking a way through
the cracks in the glass,
or the gaps between the logs
in a penurious farmer’s house
The kingdom trembled with fear
And drowned itself in alarm
For it was always told
that the evil cold wind
will cause their queen harm.
But the queen never broke
For the queen was a dream.
A surrealist drawing
Of a cloud that resided,
Neighbors to the moon.
And atop of the cloud
they lived safe and sound
Until one day
the wind blew hard enough
To break open the windows
And blow the queen rough,
to cut through her body
with the moon’s sharp edge,
Make her bleed her rain,
And storm upon the ground
her tears of agony
and shouts of pain.
Then diminish the Kingdom
into a raindrop,
that neither fell on the ocean,
Nor on a river to flow,
but on an isolated land,
That consumed it whole
into down below,
the very same point,
That it was rained upon…
I also think of how you
abandoned your own poem,
Wrinkled its three messy pages,
And tossed them away
In the lonely trash can
On the lonely corner
of your lonely room.
of how you wrote beautifully,
of how you thought beautifully,
and of how weak you were
For you to never write again
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