Sleep As Endline. Poem by RIC BASTASA

what we must accept is that turning point
of simply remembering

pieces of self that we pick along the road
and reassembling them again like a robot

the jigsaw puzzle is nothing
our minds are no longer bothered by a clutter

the whistling man is picking daisies along the way
counting and plucking each petal like a girl

at the end of this waking and walking game
what do we really get?

not even memories, they fade like denims
what we have is perhaps a scent of dying roses

which reminds us of regret and hate and which
we finally throw away as trash

it does not matter who gives it
we retreat at night, ponder upon these things get tired

and sleep.