Poem

A hazy, Lazy daylight grey
Revolves around another black Sunday
Unconsciously enters the part
Where people stand up and shake hands
It does not last long.

When you see faces in the puddles
After a rain
And know they no longer know
The you
That is where I see the beauty of a poem,
The way in nullifies the grime
On unreachable places
Like the moss-laden gutters and a heart mute.

When the birds sing on different voices
And you think of dueling Violins,
That is where you’ll hear the melody of a
Million cheers for a broken ear and knuckle,
Smeared with blood and sweat.

When on a hazy, lazy daylight grey
You felt forsaken
Like Jesus Christ
Who cried?
And fed beggars on the streets,
That is where I see the beauty of a poem.

When in a state of mind
You try to fly
To paradise
To feed a hungry self,
But a mirror always looks at you at the ceiling
When you wake up
And you go back to sleep
To feel the dreams so real but blank
That is how a poem writes itself
On an innocent piece of paper.