Sleep As Endline.
what we must accept is that turning point
of simply remembering
pieces of self that we pick along the road
and reassembling them again like a robot
the jigsaw puzzle is nothing
our minds are no longer bothered by a clutter
the whistling man is picking daisies along the way
counting and plucking each petal like a girl
at the end of this waking and walking game
what do we really get?
not even memories, they fade like denims
what we have is perhaps a scent of dying roses
which reminds us of regret and hate and which
we finally throw away as trash
it does not matter who gives it
we retreat at night, ponder upon these things get tired
and sleep.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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