Red Room Where the Writers Are

i cannot breathe properly, humidty is too high that i feel i am going to grow gills... in fact this is the least of my troubles... i cannot think properly, i am writing because i started doubting that i can think at all... i wanted to write a poem, the urge was great, but instead of putting the ghostly images at the back of my mind into words, i started eating... and after my poem was well digested, i looked around the silent apartment... everyone is sleeping... something philosophical was about to spring... but i slept...

these are simple processes, but due to my current state of mind, it raised great fears...

am i starting to melt in the Crucible of Oblivion?

and let what is me disperse into Universal Aether??

i slept in open air..

half-sitting on a chair, half-surrendering to forces of Nature,

She, the Undefeatable.

as thoughtless as i was in awakeness,

as dreamless was my sleep,

waking up at dawn,at the first serious attempt to escape darkness

i was soaked with dew,

my first thought, after i frowned and oh-ed

for the pain in my neck,

was

have i been mistaken, by Her,

for a broken branch?

for a pile of leaves?

have i been mistaken

for something that i wasn't?

was nature decieved?

because i am not

i cannot

breathe

because i do not deserve to breathe

but She sees i do, she marked me with dew!

or did she pity my thirst? my exile?

"embrace me..

you have your place there..

among promenading clouds,

in tiny spaces between rocks,

you sprout,

among playful children,

you do!"

so whispered the dew.

so don't tell me i don't belong there and there i don't live,

don't tell me i was drenched in my own, pitiful human self,

and that was all part of a silly dream of my half dead brain.

don't tell me that friends are still away,

that children still die everyday,

that i'll sleep and wake, and wake and sleep

while the dagger rusts in my heart so deep

my poem tastes bitter

but the promises whispered were sweet