Rains are constant tonight not my wretched two legs.
I am fumbling upon the blank spaces of this carbonated room…
I have seen my face after a long time in the mirror and I haven’t recognized this face…
long dragged veins of unforgiving deserts,
You see so many faces in a market place and you don’t know how they are living, where they are living and most importantly why they are living…
I have the facial reflections like any one of them.
You always see the poems and you have earned the physicality to always see the poems
but you don’t know the poet…you can’t possibly know that the person is coming so close to his somber valleys.
Now I realize I have spoken so many words throughout the early days of my life that it was inevitable for me to write poetries…
I have seen and made my futures through these silences of ionized words.
I have travelled between two buzzing cities and I have been lost between two wild forests
and I will always choose the numbered orientations of buses and trains and marked exits than the blurred torches and shallow visibilities of my eyes.
I think I could never be a poet if I lived in rattling Sahara or any remote lands of peacefulness.
The rain is getting thicker with every diluted times…
I have stopped moving from one wall to other,
I have broken the mirror and now I feel like I am again in my full functioning cities of old roofs and corrupted pimps and forgotten kites…
the flashflood of irrelevant crafts and the courage of a middle class trooper is waiting to be rushed through the broken doors.
Photograph: Elisha Neave.