How real is this fact
That I’m out here, able and intact
Underneath shelters and shelters of
Clothes, blankets and thick walls
Preserved in like a specimen
Segregated and closed off in a pitch black cellular chamber
That’s silent, faraway, and forgotten
Awake, with a buried heart that wonders
Whether there’s a man in a forest
Who could hear
Lying in bed
Smoking hookah with Rumi
Staring at the ceiling
With walls made of shadows.
The scent of agarwood in the air coming from the kitchen;
Drafty rose and all things eastern and holy
My skin oozes with warm toned oil
A tasty blend of nature, dirt, rain in the city,
Lotus, lily, ice cream, rose, opium and something tremendously unsatiated
Like the mystery in ancient stories;
Just like the way baba used to tell it.
This still of the night;
A lonely bug crawls
With a burden on his back,
On a mission
Across this enclosure that’s so alive, so open
Caterpillars, hopefully, like the ones from my childhood
Lizards, lizard lovers, families, dramas;
They once used to be my friends.
I could lie in bed and watch them for hours; their shadows, like dragons.
The sound of silence and bells from women praying
The sound of static radio and the news theme playing
Virtuous strings and purposeful tablas; the world was full of important, manly things
I was too entangled
In my own world,
Marveling at the architecture
Of this funhouse
With walls made of peculiar corners
And a floor made of ceiling.