The Fork {a poem}

The fork.

Blindly leading a life opposite of mendicant ascetics. Pecuina forensic, time to wear his afterlife lenses. Sometimes he questions whether he should have questioned himself. But now he has to. Bacterial thoughts weakened his soul and now he has to. He has to return to that state, return to his place, return to the time where they were in awe at his halo. Distressing their broken arrows. Writing a band saying, O’lord Lessen his life span.

Two angels writing every action. One road leading up to a fork. The right way is filled with a companion, hardship, and potholes. The other path is filled with momentary satisfaction, emptiness and potgolds. He must make a decision before the gaslight, before temptation, tee bones him and the pavement turns into a crash site. These roads are not survived by nomads, because on the angels' notepad, accomplishments speak louder than efforts. Though intentions might be pure, intentions are only known between his creator and he.

At the heart of the fork he notices a park bench. He approaches my idle soul. He asks if he could have a seat. Then he begins to speak of those peaceful nights. Those same nights, where my troubles were merely the delaying of my ambitions. Where good thoughts weren't selective. Where he was there…filing in my shortcomings. Where prayer was the only outlet. He just wants to be at home again. And for the first time in a while, I began to start hearing him again. As the dim sunlight is being reflected behind the clouds, the smell of rain seeps the ground. My soul speaks. Quietly says,

I miss me.

» A liberatormagazine.com exclusive feature
by Mohamed Ibrahim


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