Thursday, April 14, 2005


An hour can seem
like a moment
when you sit in the blackness.
The night surrounds us,
seeps into our skin,
and becomes us.
We are black
as the night.

Sitting on an old bench,
surrounded by blackness,
we are intimate.
A canvas of lights
lies before us.
We talk into the lighted dots,
to each other.

What is the purpose of life?
Love turns into Hate.
Hate turns into Love.
I love my mother, and
hate her for dying.
She loves her sister, and
hates something, someone, some being
greater than us.
She hates explanations,
people saying it is better this way.
This is what God wanted.
She hates because she loves.

We breathe in.
the blackness fills our lungs,
does not leave us as we exhale.
The lights are still listening.
An entire city,
The wind blows.
It is easy to worship
the visual,
the world.
It is difficult to worship
God, any god.


Sean said...

...especially when God is dead.

PoeticMermaid said...

Loved the last lines. I coudn't agree with you more, Adrian. Though I probably still see god in things other than nature, I hate when people wait for "the almighty" to come down and rescue them, when they can rescue themselves. Not that I'm the only one with the power of "god". We all do. Most don't believe it.

I also liked the turns of love into hate back into love again throughout this.

gulnaz said...

hey great pictures there and the lines are sweet too ;)
you have a great view from you apt.

. : A : . said...

Like the way you move from one theme to another in this poem.