Storyteller of mud and grass

on a mindful sunny day while walking by your side i had thought about this day of many sunsets while the dark deep clouds saw straight into my eyes i had still wanted to stay there till the rain i was still waiting there for the next rain while i fell, crashed and fainted in the field of the humble golden crops and here i am waking up in the third floor of an ignorant hasty city and here i am visiting the countryside like hippies, taking pictures of the abysmal self and here i am and here i am

it was here another time i've known you since the time these dead trees were seeds world was a crystal and this sky was a moment be knowing or not yet it exists the slow walk that happened before being what it is today let silence narrate the roar burried in metamorphosis let there be light of the unheard all over rains that were there until a moment before one day the time that was there until fading away must the day come to narrate the night the stories of dark to the blind light if at all a telling must there be let there be a poem that talks about me the pebbles that raised the wall of cognition can never fall you keep looking for the wall of cognition in every wall night when you come back to this abyss let yourself see that 'another time' if at all a telling must there be let there be a poem that talks about me i am the streets of the town that was there i am the fallen dry leaves on them i am the time before me i am all that will ever be it was here another time Arp...

The book where i had met you, is still being written.. I am one of the many words that a writer puts on paper often as a brick in the wall and seldom as the wall itself.  This is how i met another such word during the small lifetime of the language which i was a droplet of.  The pen had put me on paper so many times through sentences, pages and books forming lakes, rivers, wells in jest and demeanor. I was the pawn who lived in the illusion of being the knight, jumping over rooks and bishops. I had been there several times bridging gaps between otherwise meaningless colonies of word ants climbing seemigly difficult hillocks and descending cautiously into deep trenches of a flat world of mosaic in a sleepy afternoon partly alive house of pages.  The ants always appeared in order with each other, moving, yet unintended. I sat there with all the might and induced intention in them. I could always see myself, yet never once from the blind side. A melancholy had been compoundi...