I stand there
in the middle of this (w)vast(e) land
like a tree, all stretched out
No wind here flows
so no leaves ever did I grow
and so I never made a rustle,
but I still wished you would listen.
My roots were dug deep into
the soil of the trauma I was tossed into,
And so my branches grew all malnourished
tell me how could I even bear the heaviness of the fruits?
You look at me with
your eyes made out of a shutter,
capturing the picturesque,
but with no words on your tongue to utter.— % &Just like as if you're a passenger
passing by on the train,
but locked by my sight
like when you see the girl at a party
and think she's the one until she
turns your life upside down.
You call the sight "oh so cinematic"
everything moves behind her in a blur
and she is the only thing you've locked your focus on
"oh what a stability''
But I stand static.
Like a land
after the greatest war on a snowy day.
What's supposed to be in white
is covered with black and grey
of ashes unfigured,
whether they were from the blast made by the shells
or of the dead,
but the coldness melts making a river of red.— % &But can your film capture
how my arms are yearning for warmth?
I can't ask for it but I have stretched them to a point
where the twigs grow out
like split ends...
Come, wrap the rope of your swing
around me and become my wind so that I can sway in it
or tie your noose over me,
"oh, how so dramatic" it would be.— % &
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