Underneath the Wreckage


Subway station, empty/peaceful.
Yet my thoughts, immersed in chaos.

This city sleeps, though I hardly catch a wink.
Fellow men and women dying in the streets.

Can’t dispute we all bleed red,
but the darker your skin the more often bleeding happens.

An elderly woman moves over, to block me from taking a seat.
Not the first time, I’ve felt subtle, hot, contempt.

Can’t mind it, I’ve got calls to answer, files to update, bills to pay.
Just like everyone else.

The city sleeps, but I hardly catch a wink.
Filled with desire for more, for better, and far from at peace.

Perspective

Whether fault belongs to you
Or in truth, may lie with me
It’s all about perspective
All that matter’s what you see

The City Wakes

Street corner painted in color,
Apollo’s light kisses the clouds.
Each step full of history,
Beginnings, ends, drunk lovers,
Keep hold.

Every morning all is born anew,
The streets are alive for you.

Roses

Roses are red, like the inside of your eyelids.
Fragments of dreams and memories swimming behind them.
Seeds planted with high hopes, Start to wither in winter.
Then are re-imagined in the spring.
Red, like the first drop of passion spilt. Like struggle, madness, – all but sadness.
Sadness only arrives in hues of the deepest blue, gives birth to perils in your head.
What a simple gift, that roses are red.