Phases Poem by Soran M. H

Phases

Do not surrender to the weight of this relentless day.
Worn fingers falter, unable to brush away frozen tears
that cling to the edges of vision's shore.
Colors dissolve into indistinction, while thoughts flicker,
caught between the stark contrasts of black and white.
Fragility surrounds you, passing like a headless wind.

Sometimes a hand shields your face, silencing your lips—
motionless now before the tedium of sights that covers familiarity.
The faces of passersby blur into obscurity.
Two figures walk at a deliberate pace, as though navigating the fragile eggshells of existence.
The cry of a rooster mingles with the slicing sound of a butcher's knife,
interwoven with voices that drift like speech submerged beneath waves.
Melodies stripped of meaning echo faintly,
yet does all spoken language possess a face to identify?

One figure longs for rest in wakeful slumber;
the other's extraordinary words attempt to pierce the silence.
Did you notice the bird escape its cage—its chest relieved of restraint?
Step back and observe: autumn settles heavily upon the branches.
Hold fast to the leaves of your shirt,
lest you lose them in the wandering—
a disappearance with less-than-loss.

The traffic surges onward, impervious to a weary coffin swaying under the burdened sun,
a sun that succumbs daily to the abyss of horizon.
Tomorrow it will ascend once more, its eyes languid with sleep,
feigning ignorance of yesterday's bitter farewells.
Gravestones cast shadows deeper than before—
a fleeting glance will suffice, drowsiness nearer.

you arrive and clutch onto the arm of weariness.
The destination looms distantly, and your inner voices yield their arguments.
Their resolve dissipates as you descend step by step on time's elusive ladder.
At last, at ground's end, rests a cradle cradling a soul unfamiliar—alien to resounding dreams.

How fortunate you are, untouched by loss throughout your journey into exile—hidden behind walls of knowing.
No whispers engulfed you at the brink of shrouded barriers in the night when fate cast you aside—
an old predator letting go with disinterest as you fell upon an empty street sidewalk.

You rushed forward amidst unfurled banners that drowned color in motion, pursued by incessant screams and restless dreams.

Yet down below still waits a quiet refuge:
Where the cradle lies bearing that soul, its gaze ever upward—marked by unwavering hope for your long-awaited return...