Tag Archives: Waiting

Waiting Remains But Seasons Change

I wait for you, for the eternal love between you and the aching soil,
I wait to smell the sky opening like a cave to let you break,
mud in the pots and old red walls painted in your colourless colour.
I forget everything, you’re my manner of detachment
from agonies and suffering that make me dreadfully dry.
I forget the laments of the broken heart of that black bird
once shooed away for her colour and once for her free song.

They taught me it’s an act of a fool to wait for something
which is temporary and seasonal, but what are you if not the face of freedom?
Do you not break your ties with the vastness of the sky
to meet your old graves buried in the soil?
I love how I fail to believe you’re a season’s gift and
I’m a desperate freak in your waiting and in forgetting of this drained self.

Summer begins to stink, no way different from these people, poor bodies,
crushed in small yellowed houses caged in their wraths and dooms.
I wonder if summer intends to make jokes, every season, on our shattered blossom.
Hot air we breathe but bones still frozen.
I wait for you, for the season to match with how my heart feels.
Only on your arrival, do my songs and sorrows drown into one another,
Just like the first rain drops sizzling on the forsaken old heated floors.

I wait for you all day long, without measures and calculations
everything is wrong, so wrong, but everything will be right
when the sky is not too bright, a little dull and lifeless for a while,
and then your beginning, the upheaval first and a continued soothing hymn.

Waiting remains but seasons change;
But a man never said four seasons be enough for escapes and
when have I not asked for more, just a little more of you?
An unseen solitary ocean is waiting in my songs
for a few dewdrops of petrichor to let me melt
my ruins of reality with you.



Of being able to say what I can’t hold anymore.
Of time.
Not running out of my hands like sand.
Creeping slowly when I want to halt and feel nothing.
Of being able to cry,
Oh cry!
Cry my bones out
and feel weightless.
To feel it sliding down my stomach
that wet, teary smelled, broken breath
that makes noise like death.

Of a month after months,
a day when all the waiting
would be justified.
Of transformation.
When walls, smells, soaps, noises, faces, foods, colours, water, spaces, vacuums, fillers, rooms, ceilings, birds, roads, dust, seasons would change.
Of answers beyond the stories of transformations.
Would it be enough?
Or would I still wait for another story with a longer waiting?
And would this be my life?
Just this?

Of being loved the way I want.
Of being able to drown into those moments that look like pauses,
like photographs still and deep.
And no matter how long you gaze at them,
nothing about them changes.
Of someone someday loving me
without telling the need to leave
for work, meetings and appointments.
Someone free
of the damages of this world.

Of being able to cut off from these ideas
that I never chose but
they still surround me like daily soaps
running in some distant room.
Whom would you want to kill more?
The makers or the viewers?
The idea of settling down,
earning money,
getting up at 8 and sleeping at 10,
using calendars and watches and setting alarms,
of being a people pleaser,
going to parties and wearing make up,
of not being moody, looking presentable,
following dress codes, hiding womanhood,
avoiding rebels, hating rovers, condemning hippies,
men and women and some other avoidable species,
hate the government, argue to look safe,
women’s respect is in her vagina, men have balls of steel,
live in hypocrisy and die full of regrets.
Of imagination.
Imagine a world without these ideas.
Of realisations such as these:
even imaginations
are nothing less than wars.

Of rushing into now and now
and now in this next moment.
When anything can happen
Or maybe nothing would happen.
But at least it will be a newer now.
And in every now
I look a little more like nothingness.
Every now full of silence.
More peace and the world
more disappeared.

Of someday being able to
write this again
another space, pen and paper
and putting an end to it.
No, not the poem,
the longings.