A poem I wrote to my lost self while sitting at the desk peacefully
How it feels like to be her,
all day long rain
while it's summer all around
laying gracefully and all things full of beauty
floating in small puddles of eternal rainbows
but someone can't be found
not in the garden, not in front of the writing desk,
intense feeling of riding in a long distance train
while the blooming summer is standing with nights and flowers in her hands,
neverworldly inc. labels on midnight snack boxes delivered by train attendant.
It feels like the longest evening
with old books all around and radio on
yet someone is afraid of the creeping whispers
behind long velvet curtains,
ice cream shop on the fringe of the forest
sells only today's special, snow vanilla with absent walnuts,
and moths circling around lonely streetlight,
as you might guess
that kind of beauty of liminal town.
Poems
featuring chatty herbs and churches filled with raven black lollipops and red and white cough drops.
It feels like playing nocturnal badminton in the deserted dream
while interrupted radio signals remind of ghosts all over space, transmuting,
yet someone is obsessed with mastering the game,
school assignments, sweaty chemistry classes, dusty sneakers lost somewhere on the way.
Waking up in the wrong place.
It feels
acoustical
reverberant
floating in the sensory deprivation tank at the underground station
on the moon,
astrological chart of acclaimed female writer from the past century read by queer astrologer.
How it feels like to be her,
all day long rain.