I think my legs have a favourite street
My head call it the little noon
And as I breathe in its famous sulky dust
It gives me a rare bronze taste
I remember learning about the Harvest
Afternoon of the Phoenix’s puzzle and whistling past a solitude
Your friends don’t stay and Red in cheeks becomes for the numb
Some legs swoon on the street
And some are shook by the blatant sun
I blink, trod and reflect.
What if it is the end of tunnel
and his white light is calling for an end?
So I hop upon this reawakened heroism
Believing in one last venture of a poetic death
Only to realize that I was just dazed
And tunnel was never really black.
The artificial sunflowers reply in brief.
The red brick mansion and a man smiling at ease
A lady tutoring her neighbour’s son
Why, I see it all now hun!
The stories caged in flesh are now bound by cement
Souls become Bodies and Bodies become Homes
And yet nonetheless, Stories
Like me. Just Stories.
Image source: National Geographic