Grief struck like a classy arrow hitting the bullseye,
it warranted a visit to the Arab girl,
yes, I was hoping to hack the hap.
it was a sultry Sunday,
Apollo, in his casual cruelties,
embracing the ecstasy of the earth.
anyway,
oh — it’s you again,
said the seer,
in her stained eyes.
did the stars shine right?
was the question,
only to show the pain brightly,
was the response.
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Johnny, only pain’s pilgrimage is pure,
try, not treading it with tears.
said the seer.
In a husky voice,
I spoke —
I crossed the sun, the moon,
summer, and the winter,
day and the night,
ebb and the flows,
mountains and the valleys,
in rectitude.
regardless,
the clocks did not move,
the stars never aligned to pacify,
the dreams are half-eaten and half-rusted,
the roads not taken, too ended in dead-ends,
the heart was never stretched,
the lungs never loosened,
and the breath still heavy and hectic.
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Look,
said the seer,
all stories die in the end,
even the sad ones,
especially, them, said the old kitten around her.
your clouds are heavy,
yes,
but, soon they shall wet the marshes.
ha,
the roads,
every highway shall meet a crossroad,
you are supposed to enjoy the drive,
not count the miles along the path.
now,
put that god damn smile,
and take a breath.
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well, that sanitized my soul,
I thought —
and took the up-road,
cycling across the un-lit streets,
whistling and eating the emptiness of winds.
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(Playing with the fates)
Thy Vox 
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