Reasons

do not reason like a stone
staring at you asking for some
justifications about the flowing of a river.
Thoughs, plain thoughts. Nothing to argue
about how the feet must go, without the hands.
There is no sense. The head keeps dignity.
And the heart plans a revolt of an outburst
of red....more red, like a blend of carrots
and a squeeze of oranges, and a roast
of red tomatoes. Taste. Buds. Tongue.
Splashes of blues and greens.
Strokes. Brushes of realities.
Blend. White and Black. Faceless.
You are a brick wall. Tinged. Tanned.

You pretend walking on the sea. You ask
for flight. This is the island of loneliness.
There is no boat. No bridges. Just hands
without fingers. Mouth without lips. Shine.
The moon above you. You sing. Blues.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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