It is the terribly sad hour of the season
when the ghosts of the past
are coming back like waves
in a crazed kamikaze longing, salted in despair
There are marks of strangulation everywhere
leeches growing on the moss
and time, remained distilled
in the faucets of forgetfulness
it was eating its own sad history
and repetitive heartbreaks
There were days when fear was
going to school, meeting new people
a terror of looking at yourself in the mirror
shaving your hairs and love was a stillness
in the pond of tears
now you are scared of abundance and of loss
unable to remember your own existence
what is it that you’re afraid of?
You drown in discreet disasters
running away while the gods laugh at your folly
what is you lived in a house with no mirrors
will the fear disappear into the walls?
Or will you learn to be braver and kinder
the next time the mirror looks back at you.