Your eyes
rain of
watery pains,

anchored
in solitude
and counting
ungainful gains,

you are crying
for mother earth
to open its womb,
engulf your sorrows,
then it will slowly wane,

the roof
of your eyes
leaks
now your pupils
unable to dodge
the rain,

chew some stones,
sip alkaline,
may you
be fine

why the
natures atmosphere
use your tears
for wine,

your joy
now locked
in a vale of
unknown,

i can
see a lark
singing
in the edge
of a mahogany
of your own

when was the
last day
you remembered
the dictionary
contains a word
called fun,

why is
there fogs
around you
that burns?

How many
movies turn
out real?
Or is there
any woman
whose dreams
come to past?

If there is
are you,
must you,
will you be the last?

Let me wake
mother earth
with my incantations
and ask her why,

why this angelic
creature
always bid for
night to come
so she would die?

Anon,
God gives
and forgives

and the imperfect
men gets
and forgets