Poetry

We always searched for the center, 
the dark hole of a naked mind. 
World moved in concentric rings, 
like onion peels. 
I scream at myself, 
on the absurdity of finding, 
A truth which had expired. 
 
If the trees could talk in end, 
and bail out 
the saint of fallen apes 
I will start measuring, 
the deafness of a storm, 
its eyes squinting 
and whose deep genitalia, 
had delivered a still birth. 
 
Why should we mourn 
for the unfolding disaster? 
The loneliness and despair, 
are not the big themes. 
And no body cares to listen, 
to the ripped confessions. 
A purple patch appears on the green heart.