Everyday I see the bus crossing this grass field,
those small heads looking outside from the square windows…
So many of them remain on phone scrolling through and selling their vivacity.
It was never meant to be like that or perhaps it was,
I am too caught in the maze that is in me.
Everytime I toss an empty cigarette pack outside the window it breaks through the wind and finds a broken corner of usuals.
‘You are never going to make it…’ promises are still strong and still warm with motions…
There’s something inside me that tells; happiness is not retrospective and retrospection doesn’t come with spilling joy,
it’s true…the silence that is constant, the obscurity that is oblivious…
those never cross the path of directness.
The running tap and the broken bulb…it’s too hard to work for a poet…

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Trevor Philips.