Poetry: Evening Picnic
The Abandoned Vacant Lot Filled with Concrete
Weeds sprout from the cracks,
A sign reads it was once a place to heal creatures.
All that remains is melancholy and "Hope Pears,"
Lying on the feverish black ground after scaling the tall fence.
A clock that has stopped thinking, or perhaps for reflection,
Stands motionless, hands pointing in the same direction without bending.
It would be nice to have gum, to keep a semblance of sanity,
It would be nice to have gum, to stay a bit less unhinged.
Dusk pretends to offer the answer of life as usual,
And leaves with an oblivious face.
But I cannot blame,
At least it gives some "meaning."
Taking a bite of the pear,
Juiceless, tasteless, except for bitterness.
Trying to discern what it is through chewing,
It disappears bit by bit with every bite,
Leaving only a vague and undesirable presence on the tongue.
"I'll come back,"
To have an evening picnic,
To find hope in the dusk.
Copyright © Nova Chiyu | Year Posted 2024
|