Clips

 

Left in my virtues are your
vices
moments of unwashed
memories
I sit on a brown mountain
in search of fleeting clouds
which once brought the rains

You are somewhere in a
desert
a barren mind of a writer
in search of a white river
meandering
to meet the poet’s solace

I pick clips from clothes they
hang to dry
now a dark room full of
colourful clips…
silence prevails while they
calculate the years of
confinement

You are left somewhere to
remember
and I travel to forget that
each time I breathe,
my air signs only one name

(c)Ani…
Artwork by Me…