Q u i d a m

Burnout of sixty nine olds

If tall window shows infinity,
  
     then, it's known for hard reality

the rooms are ever vast, I've seen

chilli flakes, like those prying candle

flames.

       Playing hard as candle waxed,

As harder the wind races,

By the tide, nothing floats and I—

being a tropical leaf, blowin' in the white

city, where every call-up turned away.

Six-fifteen in the morning,

     Sun, draping yellow celebrations of

birdsong that drifted in deep joys—

But I see black and furry boughs,

How slowly, coldly, old time grows!

         Haven't I been the wanderer of ghost town?

I raced through the same allies,

Boots cracked under the white sheet once,

Still like a falling rain—

I'm down in the same lane.

Still the sun perks gold flames,
    
        the heart, that's changed to hammer beat—

I bear the self-bruised faint spark,

wounds of uncompressed dark,

Still falls the rain, still falls the snow flakes

        And I thought—

the dying heart: deep, poignant in thrust

can never hold the fire of world—

But it did, approximately in its arms

cradled with grey dogs.

So, when winter comes again;

All vanished, like a vision vain,

Like you never came,

My heart didn't hammer again.

          Past sixty hours passed,

Wooden floors creaked,

The music ceased, the day dreams

again of desert nights, where they're trying

hard to get rid of golden gleams.

                   . . . pressing the accelerator, leaving the overweight.

━━━━━━━━━━━

This is the sequel of my poem, "Six(teen) candles." Since gideoneaston (an amazing writer) wanted an extended version: here it is! I'm putting the link in the comment section if anyone wants to see that poem.

— 30th August, 2023