The poems landing at night have been lifting me up from my sleep lately, unculcating me that the older I get, the more my face would resemble my father’s, also the more often the child inside me starts to head out of my chest, waiting for my waeverings before I fell asleep, to disembark

He believes I wouldn’t hear him: as I fell asleep last night, he quietly unlatched his door and slipped out off my chest again, like a teenager cribbing secretly the car keys behind his father’s back to fling into the night.

He gets so rejoiced on those escapades that I envy his excitement, his thrill for life.

Sometimes he puts on a cap when he walks off,  so that no one  would recognize that it’s me, while he’s wandering outside, but I see him, recognize him.

And then, towards the dusk, he slowly snitches back into his cavity in my chest in silence, but I hear him.

The poems landing at night have been tearing me off from my sleep these days, the verses like below:

I know you, and paint you in all your blue shades
From dusk to midnight, and down to the dawn
I act and strike to protect you as you’re a fawn
Sailing to your valerian, in tides with galleons

I know you, and spread you in all your bright shades,
Like watching the sun through tree leaves,
Always your hero unless the fortune breaves
Still keep hiding our ring among hideons

I know you and brush you in all your pale shades
your skin faded to ashes as you’re afraid
seeing me crying is like watching, you said
the slow blossoming of costus burgeons

I know you by devulging all your red shades
From eruberant poppies to incandescent sunset
Having discovered my true self so late…
Learning to manage it ,would take aeons

I know you and unveil all your dark shades
Above ebony fields, as your dark moon heaves 
When you say, tomorrow your train back home leaves
You put me sleepless in twilight dungeons

What if that reflection of the sky on my window glass, witnessed by the red crescent peeking me through my window while those verses disturbed my dream and summoned me in front of my balcony door, while those curious night howling birds, the cedar waxwings, crying their throats off, interrupted by the lightning that cracks the varnish of the dark sky, was it a real flash? ,then why not followed by the deafening rumble of its loyal thunder,  or is that instantly growing root alike shape of that blinding blaze just my imagination,  my will, itching for branching slyly millions of limbs from itself, may be it’s nothing but the capillaries of our forehead veins growing thousand curling fork like sprigs in our soul, so abruptly as the shapes of an ink dispersing when dropped in the water, I look at them, in the flickering reflection on my trembling window glass, through which I contemplate the sky to forget the fact, even for a slightest shred of  moment, that I ain’t be able to leave , nor change , nor forget my true self that I am born into.

Then I see a moon, which draws up a face for me by the patterns of its fur, sending me lullabies with hand gestures in his own sign language, gleaming on iris fields , unsparingly, who tilt their heads in midnight breeze as if  revolting against the mutating shine of the full moon, like the mothers who have come to the battle field the next day, to claim the bodies of their husbands and sons, guarding by one hand the light of the flickering candles they carry, as their unmistakeable smell unveils,  made of breu branco resin, tossing  their heads in four directions those mothers, as desparately seeking , surrendering their hair into air then reimbursing them back from wind, like the rearing horses slanting the horizon, whipping the wind ferociously with their manes, neighing jelously for saluting their untameable freedom.

And then, I see an island on my trembling window glass, whose coast ridden with jelly fishes and uprooted seaweeds,  an empty fishing boat nearing its shore reluctantly, strangely no one on its bank,why?,  only loosened paddles made of thuja wood, whose tips floating on water back and forth, is it a rolled fishing net lying on its deck, probably dipped in styrax resin to make it resistant against salt water, the scales of the red mullets inside, wiggling to escape between the meshes, whose skins are shimmering like rasor blade’s sheen under the lowering red amber moon, descending shyly towards the horizon to pick up his lover “the sun” quite soon, as a fisherman’s lantern buoying on the water surface, covering the castoreum oil lamp inside, gloaming indecisively, calmly watching how the mullets winking for their lives to escape from the net, as if feeling guilty for being free and outside in the water, times sinking , times emerging back on surface, gazing at them times from beneath, times from above the water with its gleaming flame.

Then I see a heart shape, on my window, formed by the entanglement of two ivy trunks, twisting on each other like a tottering tipsy DNA helix, while they are intimately riveting through their stalks, an ancient tribal warrior would be keenly watching them,  lying hoddenly in wait for his prey, camouflaged among the patchouli bushes, with one hand pulling down its combate mask onto his face, and the other hand hung steady in the air, holding the spear , whose tip is soaked in frog venom, surveilling this fabulous ivy boles slipping between huge budha woods,  like a pyhton winding around the enormous-stemmed greenheart tree, as if squeezing his prey rancorously, shaping meanwile that double heart pattern,  as if stopped each other’s heartbeats by strangling their throats while hugging each other, collapsed upon themselves, landed dried on each other’s crusted shafts after a ruthless wrestle, their fresh offshoots sprouting through their cracked crusts, mourning for their ancestors while knitting around the crumbled dead boughs their freshly germinated green hairy limbs, watching over the scabbed off barks on their lifeless stems, which lye intertwined into each other like two abandoned snake skins , left apart while meandering around each other, ressembling two human hearts, with their tressed veins weaved into each other, leaning one against the other in the form of two entangled fists, as if died during an inexorable arm wrestling.

And I see a face, a timid, inexperienced young deer ,unfamiliar to the weight of his new-headed horns,  startled by the humming that his antlers make in the wind as he turns his head around, crouching on the muddy dried cedar leaves , dugging with his hooves, smudging his own scent from the pheromone pouches beneath his chest fur,  releasing its indivudual musk signature on that earth to mark his territory.

And as last , if it happens to be truely the last,  I see a light, “here they are” I announce to the light , leaning on me : “look, it’s your destiny” I say, while presenting all those behind me;  the moon, the sea, the face, the island , and the heart,  “But I don’t even know them” adverses the light, with a gesture, where he waves the air away by the back of his hand,  “but it’s your faith” I oppose him,to the light,  entreating: “it’s yours, you know” where ….off course,… it would be never mine, would it, it’s always someone else’s,  I wouldn’t dare to attempt to read my own destiny, never…ever,

So I approach the faiths of those others; the moon, the sea, the face, the island , and the heart, almost sinisterly, with a wretched consolation of a self denying fortune teller, consumed to conceal and forget her trueself by longing to speak the fortunes of others, hence I am webbing a rigorous fishnet of their future for them, shrewdly on the loom of their barely perceptible twitching eye muscles, just to figure out, what they think, fear, anticipate, adore or ravish, making sure that I compose unsettling pauses in my voice while I improvise, to deliberately arouse curiosity, and to instrigate relentlessness during their breathless listening to my fortune telling