A poem by Ceren Guler.
You speak to me in whispers. We cry. We try.
We don’t understand where – and why –
we’re going there,
but we do.
My flavor is wind and mud. I can feel it in my toes when
I breathe in your dust. I wish I could lie there
down on the ground where the seeds are bright and bare and blue and brainy,
sparkling light while morning numbs me.
You see, whispers can’t save me now
when all my thoughts are
broken lyre strings that bristle my neck in one cheap trill:
If only I could travel your moaning road,
could illuminate the dreams of streets, bands, twigs
and all those pages from once I arose.
But your whispers can’t free me there
all that’s left is morning’s dregs and my burnt bottomed coffee mug which always hangs
Where? Are we going? I need to (without you)
but I fear that inside me the specter-grey will loom and drown my body in a thousand scabs that read ‘I told you’
For if your thoughts were always this cold and bright
then the teeth we moulded were never quite white
And the whispers
they clouded up my eye
And they whispered ‘remember me’