Buried Pollens

She does that when she falls in love with a man

She runs away with strangers

To strange places

Doing strange things

Living a life on the verge of resistance

Courtship with her

May last many years

Involving a lot of

Passionate

Ambivalence

Inspired by the writings of

William S Burroughs

And the paintings of

Mark Rothko

She waits for madness

To save her from her own unpolluted sense

Of completeness

She fears

Completion

She loves

Being unfulfilled

Like a drug

She runs

On the roads

Inside the veins

Of her dreams

Like a medicine

Perhaps

It is her only cure

Repeating to herself

A lullaby

Curated in a hole

In the wall

Of her desires

Forever mutating

With a dark colour

Inside of her

Invisible to lovers

And painters

And writers of illusions

There was a day when

She realised that we are

Stones

We are all moving stones

Crushing life

In between our palms

Waiting for a river

To smooth our rough edges

Turning our lost pasts

Into something meaningful

Like death

Whishing for the

Fifth horseman to

Excavate the pollens

Buried inside our own thickness

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