All that breaks

She gave me a cookie, an anvil and a hammer.
But it was delicate, even for my fingers - breaking
into pieces even before I knew.
She made me hundreds of them - same delicate cookies.
I so wish they were cookies, not promises.

They didn't let me write poems, poems of truth
because they found them pathetic.
The ink that ceased, never resumed again
The songs that lost their freedom in the crowds of
ornamental humanity, never regraded their paths again.

But can you trace back to the years when your God
wasn’t malfunctioning yet ?
When the Friday nights would me mine, and
the stories used to be as graceful as reality.
When my poems used to be proses,
and guns could fire roses.

You could see the tulips play it fair
their love being in the air.
I so wish the tulips were me,
that her love could pollinate all my sanity.
That I could believe angels do fly
Like the bug near fire, but angels never die !

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