November 1, 2015


Filed under: Poetry — by Zuhair @ 7:30 pm

In a space, void of light,

a mesh of emotions gnaw at us;

we drop, struggling to hold on

to what we know is already gone.

Yet, we remain,

ceasing to complain

for promises keep us afloat

those we spoke, those we wrote.

Here, they are dead,

our minds and souls stay unwed;

but all is well in the other dimension.

This is but a temporary station.


Image: Both, Jan. 1645. A Rocky Landscape with Peasants.

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