Still. You remain still.
Yet, speak a thousand words.
Who is the silent speaker inside
You see, you hear, you judge, you
snigger; a mirror broken into pieces,
they take several roles, times, spaces.
Demons that were asleep suddenly
wake up in the middle of a doublespeak
raillery. Their tongues reaching
up to the sky talking of the past,
only of the past, pulling off
a nauseating course of memories.
I crawl toward the garden, but my hands
are stampede with brown leaves, full
of words, forlorn lovers.
Is this the world, a stillborn world
that I nursed within, with resilience,
faith, and affection? Just when death
was born in front of me, I fathomed that
it was a fake offspring that was giving me
the genuine pain of a new-born. You
pick up those slices of glass, pelt a
thousand questions at me. They sound
The world is massacred with words
whose sweethearts, actions, are lying
dead; a mound of cadaverous lives
moving inside the womb feigning birth,
waiting to come out as lost paramours;
only their voices masquerade, a downpour