I Cry As I Describe

I cannot discriminate and cry,
I ache from these joys of bags,
But my eyes are moments of fighting,
Innards shall prevail, in these days
And nights revolving around the world.
Open the door to my face,
Often the moments are spatial,
Palatial, and devoted, but eyes
Can hear more than the ears.

I cannot describe the lies offered to me
When times transform the settings,
The bedroom of our design is our garden
Or brain.
The kind of mind is a vehicle for the time,
Opening the garden gates
Sees us through with pain and ache.

This bedroom is my only hope,
To be high is to be small,
And my knives are my forks.

by Naveed Akram

Comments (1)

The lies offered to me. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.