It is 6 am
and I am chasing my silhouette on a lonely tarred road
the sun rays seem to be a friendly song on my skin
like I’m on the edge
of a hot stove, warm and soft.

I pick a withering hibiscus to sniff,
the faded scent seems to have traveled into thin ambiance
I take off my gloves & bore a hole with my ring finger. Perhaps it is naïve &
certain to lose but
this is not the case, I just might win this fight.

The cloud dense like a serpent, coiled in the shadows
reminds me of yesterday’s Ugliness.
I have left no mark behind except for hollow echoes
already gone

or maybe vague like a half-sketched portrait
& I want to cry but can’t find the courage to
drown in the waves,
I want to tell the full story but
there is a rusting chain around my voice –
a trail of gloom and murmuring in my soul.
It makes me wonder if the fight is worth fighting at all.
The dream is set too high, the hope is only skin-deep
& their cruel powers plant
the greatest scars in my heart
what is more brittle than a fragile heart or facile dream?
Tomorrow I’ll peel off the hibiscus from shallow ground &
put back my gloves.











Photo by Água Luís on Unsplash