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A Poem: Of … by Carlo Mahfouz

The only moment seemly in control
is that of the full senses,
blaming the thought
crucifying the soul
for the lack of control
it deemed to seek in the first place.

Betrayed and berated by the sense of being
in the divergence of seeing
the truth evading the most precious of all;
our affinity to hold dear those close
in what could be love, care, or a sharp knife twisted
in the midst of …

Whatever of … is,
it lacks and holds this immense power
to leave one in agony and pain
strained to a thin silver line of pristine nonsense
that leaves no bodies alive in its wake
daring to call itself merciful.

Be well, be carefree,
or lost in the ocean of thee
remains, in truth, a story that escapes the breath
on its last sigh to regain a smidge of hope
to leave and never come back …

May it be in control and out of its mind
in crazy town calling for a reprieve
nothing ends where it starts
or dares to call itself a lesson
foretold in the abbeys of the long-forgotten song of life
dancing on the foothills of hope’s dreams
and most of all a shred of happiness prolonged.

When expression lacks presence
and in its glory, a morning sunset
on the window of an eternity boiling
in the brittle waters of a condescending note,
the bearer gripes and shrugs in walking down the road,
hands flailing or tucked in a closed posture
hammering the ground with every step
as if the weight of an elephant is bearing every move,
the song starts dwindling, losing its control
and in the step regaining, its’ hold lost,
out of whatever of… was.

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