About September

September arrived like
two patrolling cars to comfirm
if I am still a criminal.
And my salty eyes gave away.
Yes, I am fugitive who still runs away from the feeling of lonesome,
from the unacceptability that it’s belongingness has been uprooted.
Like a twig whose Tree has been lost
like a tongue who lost its taste buds,
like a guitar whose strings stopped producing melodies
like an invisible faded light of a tea-candle
in a sky full of trembling fireworks.

September inspects the universe I created
of self-fulfillment, of gratification
and catching me red-handed with
a black hole of anxiety that kept forming
in a middle of my saviour cosmos
gradually engulfing my nerves to glory
bringing me back to a virtual reality
like someone who lost his lover to amnesia.
The one that existed and didn’t
at the same time.

Does getting older makes you
more honest
or better at hiding?

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