By: Vyarka Kozareva

IN THE BOUDOIR OF THE DAY

The morning keeps
Behind its curtains
Pieces of human fragility:
Micro-nuclei of pain,
Droplets of hope, snippets of murk
All waiting to get collected diligently,
Arranged carefully,
And tied by
Party-colored ribbons, cord or wire—
According to the rate of value.
The daily routine will attach a tag
To each one.
Tiny plates with signs
That will yellow with age
To a degree
That the memory will permit.
Can we let them rest?
These worn illusions,
Tired warriors
Maimed with personal expectation,
Sentiment- scented
But still stubborn formations.

A CAN OF WORMS

Words
Like millstones
Heavy
Rough and battered
Deliberate.
Behind
Remained pabulum
In bulk
Not for the mind and soul
To nourish
Instead
To make worms busy.

HUNGER

Every time
When the night bares its indigo-blue teeth
Greedy to devour all the nebulae,
I try to transform unrest into armistice.
Too many things forgotten unvalued
Will never come with the moonlight advent.
I read the roundness of the yesterday bread—
A coded copy of the holy touch
That circles my lips.
A temple of hope, a promise of love,
Faith that nourishes repentant DNA sources,
A prepense structure of perceptions,
A substance of softness,
An agora where
Death challenges birth to a duel.
Or maybe vice versa.

PANTA CHOREI

To climb on to the winner’s rostrum,
Vanity always plays for high stakes
With sums of fluxional irrationalities.
Sometimes
It leaves confetti ash to prove the public approval,
Sometimes
Remodels the cart-road for the splayed wheels,
And never reveals the secret
For the absolute knowledge
Of rhythm and harmony.
Plaudit is the oxygen in the evil eye.
It urges the wedding flowers
To grow extravagant.
Fine plastic,
Re-usable,
Fast-forgettable.