In a circle

At times, I try to cling to acuity
But there comes motions through thoughts,
Beating the love of adagio out of me, and a calamari,
For the obscure things are yet to be enmeshed.

Life is a dead metaphor; not ready for a cathartic canvas.
I am always seeing birds perching incessantly,
On bits of dried grass to make their tattered nests.
Everyone writes about grief,
Grief too is a cliché that haven’t halt salivating,
Like a mucus on the tongues of mothers,
As well as children, lovers, birds, counties; everything.

Everyone has a blue sky above their heads.
Termites never stopped their pinching on sand,
Purposely to make a magnificent hill for themselves.

Human races helter-skelter after more than you can list,
Glasses, bricks and lands to project a house.
Isn’t life overused?

Everyday, the moon reinstates itself with the sun,
To extract another scene to be called a day.
Animals reproduces to oblige hungry stomachs,
Time fades as that old, slack and wrinkled fabric.

Grandma dies, father comes home drunk, Mother cries,
We re-paint the same grief everyday.
Shedding tears for pains that has catapulted our lives,
Hmm… the circular geometry it seizes us to stretch.

We bade good-byes, singing dirges too often
And had become a body for the dirges too.