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Ode to the Other Self

Though you're oblivious to the outside, You reside somewhere on the inside. You're a part of me, I become a turbulent sea. You arise from the unknown, You shoot your arrows, And I bear the sorrows— These are not seeds I have sown. You hide in the stygian night, You carry out your bidding even while I'm in the light. I fight the unseen, They remain invisible on the screen. I journey across borders and into new territories, I wander through meadows, Which fall into various categories. You sometimes emerge from the shadows.

Point To Something

ng the windows
no need to close
to shut until
further notice
there’s colour
in the sky
and in the air
atmosphere
in a charged
rainbow bubble
just don’t stop
wait act now
the odds may
not be so fine
as the morning
unfolds, unveils
unsure of what
might happen
at a later point
swallow that sense
of elation as it
points to something
magic, marvellous
elevating and bright
let each person start
to cross that pathway
it isn’t difficult to
I view bursts of
pure sunlit rays
seize them and
commit to memory

Одна случайность, которая изменила всё

Я раньше тоже не верил в перемены. Думал, что если жизнь идёт по кругу — с утра на работу, вечером домой, то уже всё: поезд ушёл, пора просто принять, что дальше будет так же. Каждый день похож на предыдущий, с разницей лишь в погоде или количестве пробок. Жена рядом, но каждый занят своими делами. Дети выросли, у них своя жизнь. Друзья давно куда-то пропали. Некоторые спились, другие просто растворились в своей рутине. А я будто бы остался один на один со временем, которое просто течёт. Жизни — как таковой — нет. Есть только существование.

Hiroshima – eighty years since August 6th, 1945

About fourteen and a half years
before my birth,
yours truly not even a twinkle 
in the eyes of his then
young father and mother
the former born April 9th 1929,
while the latter would be turning ten
that upcoming November 13th
living in destitution
with her three older siblings
(in proximity to then prosperous Coney Island)
emotionally devastated crying unabashedly
when she returned to espy absent building
as a wife for countless years
to glimpse the absence of domicile
she occupied until marriage
to the Arthur Murruy star student

the game was never fair

They told me the board was mine to claim, That I held the dice in a righteous game. But every square I stepped was known Pre-mapped paths etched into stone. “Choose!” they cheered, as I played my part, Unaware the script was penned from start. A marionette with strings unseen, Dancing free in a gilded machine. The devil grins in tailored suits, Deals inked in gold, roots in rotten roots. He whispers truth with sugar breath: "Even angels play for death." Right or wrong?
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