Day 11: Fix You. Read caption.
Strands of hair stick to my comb,
There’s a small hole in the mosquito net,
Through which my finger peeks out of.
And it was raining outside that day,
There was a man, drenched,
Pulling a heavy train of luggage,
Drenched he was, in rain or tears?
Water is a magician.
In it lie our comfort and biggest fears,
It assumes different shapes, while seeming familiar.
There’s a wall to repair, corners nibbled away.
A couch carrying the dust from the 18th century days,
There’s a dead pigeon, a phone buzzing,
Where is this poem leading?
Are we said to be ‘in touch’ with everyone.
because, they literally lie at our fingertips, a click away?
With the increasing ease of being together,
The effort that must be watered has been forgotten,
To pluck the flower of satisfaction,
We must make the tree last,
And in the haze of smoke,
The moment to do so has passed.
Photos no longer preserve memories,
They’re the varnish to an old wooden bedstead,
Lies to make what is bitter, seemingly sweet.
If everything we surround ourselves with is transient,
What, I ask you, is there to fix?
The air we breathe in the blink of an eye, leaves,
None of it was ever ours to keep.
And if you do find a permanence,
Let uncertainty lead,
Maybe the imperfections will seal.
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