I sat there listening to the water gurgle,
To my friend talking about time past
I saw small fishes trying to swim
Cutting through, forcing their way,
Against the steady flowing current of the slope
I saw crows and egrets trying to fill their beaks
With the same fish as they lay susceptible
In their dreams of the other side
I could see the sun’s dying light flashing,
Piercing the dust on the faces of humans
Who laugh, baring their teeth, with their socks on.
The water filled with bottles, dirt and corncobs,
Like the corncob held by my friend being eyed
By a tyke with orange hue plastered on its body.
I saw bubbles rushing up to the water and
Giving their last breath as they leave forever
Their flowing bodies, lives of short space and time.
I wonder if these string of words have any meaning,
Is this amour propre or just conceitedness of my brain,
To think the most generic and then to call myself a writer,
Frightened by my own phantasms,
I cry out in vanity about the dreams of being a writer,
With the smell of a burnt corncob and a half finished verse.

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