Shadows knock on the door even when you fold the hinge and close the blinds.
Strobing before being invaded by lights at dawn, gurgling like the stream that keeps away foam but not quite.
Brimming over and into exhausted syllables of disease.
Here, over and into are indeed two sides of the same rowing process.
You try to peep into reflections that break iron gates without poise.
Who can blame impulses at the altar of no-constancy?
The philosophy of history is one beyond guns and laurels but still one none the same where cowards canter away without noise.
Past was never for the weak.
Revisiting isn't just sometruth-tryst with memories nor remembrance bitter pulses that untimely soar and peak.
The floodgates try closing each time and fail with your resolve to volunteer inundation. The monotoneity of trials gouge out your eyes.
And you re-utter love is light when it's grave right at its core, fertile and replete with texts that you half parrot to wipe away meaning. "Every careless word makes you love a little less", says a poetess
who didn't know that carelessness is sort of spontaneity with denial or some suppose that proximity is a mess.
That words , though careless, cares about its owner.
The terrible agony of the horns flutter away rides after they had sped past through blind alleys.
Past the drowsy and pathetic loner.
So shadows knock on floodgates when they falter.
Don't blame the latches or the anger of the waves.
They are just fine at impulses rave.
Pulses often purge in spaces that die or cave.