Twenty-two

Little boy praying at the shrine.
For good grades?
With his grandmother judging his antics.
I hope, he will be heard.

My watchful eyes fly around the streets.
But they do not meet.
Just see.

Seeing all these people in crowds.
Scattered on floors, lifting themselves up on towers.

No tears to divide us, now.
It’s unfortunate that we can feel the same, but never speak.
It’s wondrous that we can just move, pass, watch and never see.
Always in circles or spheres or bubbles.

Answers always hurt, my love.
Questions best always asked, my love.
Confronting us every step on our ways, my love.

My love, a shadow in dusk.
My heart, a flame in sunshine.
My mind, poetry under your eyes.

Dancing straight ahead, we think.
Dancing through walls, I see.
Dancing straight into bed, you wish.

Blessed, we fall apart.
Cursed, we fall into one another.
Neither brings us closer.

And always 2, duality.
Two directions.
Two realities.
Two others.

Look at your keypad.
It was designed by a lonely person.
Two, leads to five, leads to eight, leads to zero.
Straight down.

And your smiles cannot mask your pain.
My words cannot conjure joy.
Yet nothing creates itself a future within all this.
Perhaps nothingness is in the end.

And the beginning.
In loops, circles, spirals.
Whichever way we choose.
Somewhere we end, somewhere begin.
In between we eat up joy and wonder.
We kick and scream.
Lay down together, tearing apart at all seams.
Or kiss and mean—something.


As preceded by 1, 20 and followed with 40–one and Fifty and 3

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