Thursday, November 28, 2013

Beetle in my head

A beetle in my head
Must have crawled in
Through the left ear
When I was sleeping on the right
In this peculiar voice
It spoke of happy days
When it lived as beggar in the streets
It would ride on shoulders
Share food with dogs
Fly into sunrise
Fall asleep at set
All was curious and new
It needn’t house nor bed

One day a metal storm came
Wiping out the streets
And all
That had been called 
Path, neighbourhood, home
Now it lay in shambles
It tumbled sans direction
Poor beetle in the storm
Hoped for something to hold on
Ended up in a sponge
A leftover of those days
When storms were only sayings
In nostalgia’s house it settled
Tuning in
To the sponge’s respiration
Drowning in water when it rained
Dying of thirst in the heat

And it started doubting
All reasonable reasons
Behind its miserable existence
Did it really exist
And was love a myth
And what about happiness
And what would it be like
To be
Without sponge
Beyond its respiration
Beyond all that the beetle possessed
Further beyond beyond
All it knew was breathing
How to remember
What it was to fly
The beetle started humming
The song it had carried
In a little pocket
Almost forgotten
Under its right wing

Then a flood came
Swept away the song
And the beetle from its sponge
Naked it lay, unconscious
At the edge of a current
In the hollow 
Of a white marble 

When it woke it saw
No longer it was
In the sponge’s respiration
Fear settled in 
An all consuming tremble
Till one night
The beetle heard a whisper
Words it had known
A hundred years before
In flight there lies freedom
It braced its wings and grew
And flew and flew
Till it grew old and thought
All it knew could be said 
In a little whisper

Last night in my dream
I heard this little whisper
We cannot go beyond
Our own imagination
Because it is endless
Being free means to be
And to be non-existent
A beetle must 
Have crawled into my head
Through the left ear
When I was sleeping