A sheaf of paper drops like a Raku bowl
From the edge of the table.
The light plays the trick, reflecting,
With million images and mirages.
The paper drops and explodes,
The fragments go on and on—
I was a child once, then young,
Now an exploding piece of paper,
Waving through the furious air.
Rumination won’t stop.
No, not even with the corked bottles,
Or the bright multicolored pills.
I used to hide under the covers,
Or in the closet with my own clothes.
It was of no use.
This pain, this rumination would
Wake me up from my dreams,
Leaving me lethargic for rest of the day.
The juniper outside, the dull furniture inside,
They are of no use—
They do not listen to me rant.
The paper flies away,
Away from a lifeless body of mine,
Across the ethereal void of time.
I am just an object in this space
Without any aura,
Or any meaning attached.