Sitting still
In the eloquence of silence
I’m thinking deep
About ending things

To be spared of oblivion
And the privilege of hope
The vain urge to be loved
And the placid sadness
Beneath the moon of
Many tender evenings

To be unoccupied
By promises of books
When today is yesterday
And tomorrow is too late
We can only give
What is already the other’s

What more do you want?
I am not even dust.

I am thinking deep
About ending things
What joy to be invulnerably alive
A mortal body of sad flesh
Languid and lethargic
Travelling into time

Only to be forgotten

And,

To be left behind.

In this sense,

I am already dead.

Motionless in the air

A pendulum hung

Where time has stayed in place

Locked by the routine of a clock

Surveying promises

Predating paradise

God is watching

In His narrowest light

This enigmatic corpse

Eternity awaits

To be forever

But never to have been

Deader than dead.

1 Feb 2021

Not my morning.

The sun is up.

Not me.

I am warped

Into a me

That looks

like me

But

Not me.

I move my legs

And drop them to the ground

I drop them,

Thrusting through

The jim-jams,

Unwillingly loud.

The unnerving first step

and the next that

converts me

Into everything

Not me.

Just because,

Your sun is up

I have to be that everything.

The Lockdown

What it was like

If they ask what it was like,

Say it was like a long pause,

With nothing really stops,

Yet nothing is really moving.

Say it was like

An uncomfortable stillness,

So still that the air could balance a small world of dirt,

So still…

Beata Beatrix

From Malaysia. A business owner. A painter and a closet poet. Hates roaches.

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