My life lays dripping in my lap
Like a deflated blow-up doll
I gently stroke its sticky wiry hair
But with every stroke
It sheds a lock
Its stench fills my lungs
With a sulfuric tinge
Of empty roads
And myriad intersections
It stinks of punctured dreams
And a quagmire of choices
And a sweet nausea
Of apathy
At each bend
I can care less
I return to my starting point
And with each turn
I ever seek
Oh so futilely
My starting point
1 comment:
Good title. I do not know, there is nothing at which I can point my finger, but it is simply not 2aribé lal 2aleb. Maybe a bit too empty, like an exercise in difficult vocabulary (I had to refer three times to the dictionary). It has a certain power, though.
Ton frère Ahmad
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