Stack my years behind me and those in front,
Rush then with them to a battlefront
That ends in a mass grave.
Stack my years and throw them into fire,
Burning a forest if there’s no hellfire
Just to make a mess.
Stack my years I lived and set them
Like dominos, then let them
To fall apart.
Stack my years in a messy writing
Needing a thousand rewriting,
Then, just delete.
Do whatever you want, please,
Just make it end, please,
Shall I see Love more than a summery image-
Made of sweet memories?
Its quality is decreasing by share to share,
Here are my hands, holding these in posse memories;
Nearly out of storage.
How is the brain prepared for facing a possible-
Then, where is the faded love in the wakeful eyes?
Where is the slumberer’s?
Might it be right to call Love on names of moments,
B’ing mere experience?
Though, my humanity is no more, but experience-
My own storage, I am.
There, each moment shares the same summary,
In my brain’s luggage.
My loving heart is still begging my conscience,
To store more, just today.
But tomorrow, will my mother’s love be erased-
In that oblivion?
Will my humanity be gone with my brothers’-
And lovers’ memories?
I wish my poetry could hold answers, but they’re-
Just mere experience.