Saturday, July 9, 2011

2:35 A.M.

The grass is shaking
but not because the storm outside;
it’s filled up with the red ants of
death - so pure, so alive,
and it is 2:35 in the morning
like every god-damned day is
2:35 in the morning,
and I take a peek outside
waiting for some revenge
upon my view on the world affairs;
but nothing is changed:
the red ants are running upon my
drunken arms
heading for my heart,
singing sweet songs of maidens
and children dead at birth,
and the storm outside is quiet now;
and the ants, my ants of death
are running away from me,
screaming with their little mouths:
“There is no soul inside”,
and finally I sleep with no remorse,
the perception of tomorrow lost
like a roach in garbage,
the ants are burning in my dream,
and I am happy for a while,
feeling mortal, too fragile,
so far away without moving a muscle,
sinking into the lie of
the new day.

--Peycho Kanev has been writing poetry for the past 10 years. His poems have appeared in more than 400 literary magazines. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection “Bone Silence” was released in September 2010 by Desperanto, NY.

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