Prena Poetry

i am just another earthly impression. withered, like the beheaded roses on graves. tangled, in this web.

sometimes, i can see the mountains walk, sometimes i can carry the desert in my brain and count it grain by grain. i am suffering, somehow. i am pushing a boulder up the hill. i am the sisyphus but an unhappier one.

i am the poet with the weeping books, willing to burn for a touch of light.

there has been people like me, there will be people like me; dented and demented, for weaving a tapestry out of chaos ( chaos ) that spread from skin to skin and bones to bones. like a disease. like a sadness. that dug the dirt on your chest and buried a corpse of a nameless stranger.

i have seen the dawn, dying at my doorstep. rivers flowing back. skies collapsing like the landslide and trees begging to be ripped apart.

i have seen, enough and yet so less.

— to be a poet