By Kimia Akbari

I’m floating by in twilight anesthesia
as Disgraceland overtly stares back
from a distance;
watching the jousting match
Of sufi mystics above polluted clouds
with the cypress-figured lady who gives
scarlet poppies, I’m enchanted.
I envy these midnight archers
I have tried their dance
but I don’t seem to awaken
basking in the thirst of hyacinth water,
floating by weakly
in this opaque state,
in deprivation of clarity
summoning more and more tales
that end with a question
as crescent slashes of annihilation
forbid the quest to liberation
and yearning yearning yearning,
ever so eternally
aware of my oblivion
then—
swimming thrashing clashing
as I drown
leaving nothing
but silent screams of pleading
and yearning


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