Four’O Clock street

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



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