So many faces, but none of them is you.
You know this feeling of the crowd anonymously many
And the voices I want to Shazam, for none of them is yours.
My plane is late again, and this pain lingers on
Like a foul smell in the air. I wish to be airborne
That I know you’re not a car ride away
That I’d know that I can’t hold you for good reasons
That the sword may go through the heart and kill me
Than linger over my chest like a purgatory leading to hell.
The pain will come, the pain will run as long as I’m not near holding you here, kissing you there, telling you that, whispering this, listening to those, holding you close.
But for now I’m at the gate, and the plane’s late.
I’m looking out the window to where you are, and I can’t go there, I can’t see you here.
So many faces, so many voices but I’m steeped in the silence and absence of you.
There’s the impatient man stomping the time away,
And the kid pushing the buttons that raise the hair
And temperature, and voice of his parents, running around.
The screen flicks through the album it was given,
And the speakers blare out exactly as they are told to.
She’s on the phone, clutching it like a deep sea dive
Scuba. She listens, answers between gasps and
Muffled tears pushing out of the cocoon heavy on
She nods while a hand wipes her cheek.
Her wet knuckles listen, and her cracked lips answer.
Even the bags hanging like weights around her crimson wells
Cannot contain the pain, it seems.
I’m holding my pen, and I look on.
I dare not ask lest my heart break.
I dare not ask lest my ask breaks in.
We all from our eyes’ corners watch her dissolve away
And start asking questions:
“Did she just lose somebody dear to Death?”
“Did she just love somebody dear and he left?”
“Did she just lose her job, and tells somebody dear?”
Only, nobody touches her shoulder and asks her;
We ask ourselves.
Nobody spares her knuckles the teary chore,
Humanity is threatened microscopically with extinction
And instinct has each government microcosm’s decision
For protection to be: checking
Temperatures of passengers passing
To ensure that their citizens don’t face infection.
But the irony when you selfishly stop the immigrants,
Not considering that on the plane the virus already had its chance
To spread stealthily from one to next;
Is that although protection was your pretext,
Your choice of solution surely needs a second glance.
To think as one, as we humans fear to consider,
Is what would wield weapon against our poacher.
‘cos to check instead as they leave
You to go to the neighbour’s is a perfect sieve,
So the sick are kept, and infection opportunities are countered.
– I –
Alu tube wings stretched on the ground,
Eyes turned outside to the turbine’s sound.
Then the dash,
And in a flash
We are happy birds casting disdain on the ground
– II –
Little littered specks amidst human nests
Without a rustle just lying on their breasts.
Each time I stare in wonder
Of what thoughts they ponder
These birds with human beings in their chests.
– III –
What’s that tremor? What does that light mean?
Why are we tilting? Why the sudden lean?
Why’s my heart with Vettel?
My palms a morning petal?
Love, hold me as we traverse this blue screen.