i see time
how convoluted it is
how deceiving like a magician
hiding it
inside the black box
and time
pretends to be a rabbit
or a bouquet of flowers
and excited as i am
to all these magic
i have forgotten
that i am a subject of
time and that
it knows
how to kill me slowly
without my knowing
and i look at time
closely
from my hair
to my belly
to the thickness of
my hands
and the losing of
my balance
what can i say then
about those
beers in my belly?
those furrows
on my forehead?
these silver hairs
these tight lipped
existence
words unsaid
a heart closing
as time shows itself
again
more real this time
like the black hooded
sickle-bearing
anonymity
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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