When Light Becomes a Slave of Hopelessness

exasperation from a gloomy stream

came and swallowed my little tears

when i was trying to reminisce the memories

of my love buried in a distant land 

beneath the house that produces hope.

my love is a very atypical love

treasured in the heart of tears

that lived on the plate of agony.

what would be your light to dream

if the person you agreed to share

your smiles with had built a hatred’s farm?

i was served a food in a burial shroud,

i was given a water to drink inside a casket,

i was asked to eat loneliness for many days

which my neurons would never remember.

so hope has become a distant land

that i can never perfume its nosegay,

& i know, thousands of kilometres are

atween my entire being and hope—

as all i eat is a cooked or boiled hopelessness.