Post memories

Disequilibrium

Inside I, the forest grows lush and wild

after you cut down your lonely host.

The crowd blooms

from airdrops on glazed eyelids

You’see someone touched a fallen leaf inside

I imitated entire body language.

Sandness fell after I heard

she tells the valley and cliff parting

which is reluctant to be loving

I may be like a tree overgrown with regret

thick and tall, but not earthy or like a towering building in ur city

become a museum of destruction of balance,

between memory and the past

Pain fall as the breath approached the loss

falling slowly over time. You're mad and me

mingled with blood, from the siege of the

wounds they milked

If the wound is the limit of loss, the scar of parting

are the thorns lodged in your body sad

when it grows and unknowingly stabs you from the inside?

Identity of nature

Meeting day and night

meet us beheaded and spend the night

in the bowels of the earth

with heart

We bathe from the water

growing from the ground

drink from the rest of the spilled earth

from the sky

The tree there became our gravestone

so that no one comes to sow prayers

but why people keep coming

carrying strings of tragedy

wish we turned it into elegy?

The encounter of light and dark

I found you to be the wind

Alone walking on air

anthropocentric I know

on online channels

With wounds at my limit and hatred

the other me willingly becomes ego

for ur conscience, hugging cathartic

as a purgatory for forgiveness

who are ignorant of languages

I go as a matter of fact

imitate ur consciousness

but you're back to being imitation

of rite in poetry

which I can't try

How it end with the questions?

How poetry ends as a poem

The darkness that is constantly being recycled

so the product of dense meaning

one by one fell hit by the wind and chainsaws

or perhaps the trapped darkness

in the language trough

How a tree ends up as a forest

or home to lush memories

The fire embedded in the memory of an old twig.

Smoke grows with the fog

dispel the obvious reality

How rocks end up as a stone

stubborn, blunt, and wounding

or the headstone that saved many deaths

from lost pilgrims in a land of greedy

outpourings of grief

How writers end up as poets

a human like you lost yourself

every time you feel someone

those who love you are gone

among the many loves—that you meet

you despise the poet yourself

How death ends as a mortality

long sleep or ever-growing fire

from the memory of the dead

rose to demand a piece of land

for a worthy death

it comes with a bundle of fate

question wrapped

Post-memories

life begins

from calm seas, worried waves

and the deepest trough

it looks calm

in the distance looking into the past

overgrown with regret from origin

sunken mind