The Posthumous Love

Every word that I have written so far

has been a mirror story of us

a cosmic map, that travels to you

My lost treasure of the youth

Thats how i trace you, in poetry

Pushing myself to a rebirth

falling in love with treachery

over and over again

I’ve made liquid nicknames for

the incomparable feelings of Earth

the peculiar surrealism of suffering

And I cannot inherit back

my childhood from a photo-album

what I was, what i am

is transferred in silence

and most probably lost

like all living things

I accept the change of it all

that which expands, contracts

like a flock of birds in flight

I am at ease, I am alarmed

you hold your own hand in smiles

And I cannot do that, I’m not you

the pieces of my soul

Were already given to words

lost on words like a poet

writing after midnight

not destined the next morning

to remember what possessed him

not able to make up all the alphabets

that changed his life as the

seconds overtake me

I will be that irregular snowflake

as misunderstood as the

hands of the clock

the golden speck in sunlight

the stranger who smiled

at me, or with me, strangely.