Unbreathing colours in the present somewhere's
Dismnesic an outline of the absurd 'gain pervious
To other colours/steps of many blind gaits.
Talking long ago, defining
Crutches for the lame, rethinking
My own pacing never.
Smouldering. Died later. Couldn't know
I'm still wasting a periodical eye.
Why is that? Because it's not raining, I heard,
But in fact, a crutch is aching my ribs
Sustaining many crippled breaths. And I,
Precisely I had to stumble upon it,
And thick dust thus raised to my eyes -
That is the reason I cry. Feel blind sometimes
And hold my eyelids crushed,
The smoke inside,
And that is the reason I cry.
May sigh wearily at dawn
Unbreathing too many breaths
In mouths wide-open for gaits blind and lame;
I couldn't crush so out of pity recompose those crippled destinies
And cry. Possibly hoping to drown them,
Some say.