Writings

My chair,

it's cushions, hold me,

like an old coat.

 

My cup,

gently kisses, like a lover.

 

My vase

holding,

my dear sweet calendula.

A dying flower,

a distant friendship.

Each yellow, falling bud

decorates and celebrates.

 

I lay down,

a rose covered wreath,

a circle,

on the ground.

Memorializing

the immortal.

 

I do believe in ghosts,

and what remains.

Are we more impermanent

than our ware?

 

A thread

wraps tight,

or hangs loose,

at a distance.

Flat and blue,

lacking intimacy.

 

Beads and tokens

decorate this

time passing.

 

Obsessive repetition,

soothes

the nostalgic soul.

 

You don't have to tell me

why you love goodbyes.

 

Holding,

an object,

is so heavy

and so sweet.

© 2023 by ADAM KANT / Proudly created with Wix.com

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