Kismet Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Kismet

I feel cold and unfilled, like clothes of the dead hanging in cabinet, blue, sad.
Sad, unfilled, empty, cold am I… chill feeling, uselessness with these words.
Long has passed of the time; meaningful, in place, warm sweet, am no more.

I borrow from shelf, internet, mind with words.
I am told “The best is the Oxford.”

I look up cummerbund and kismet, and go wild.
Neither one in place. Right is wrong.

Then I read history of the words, their trips
I can see ‘The cultures never see eye to eye.’

It is painful
To outlive and outwalk the bubble of the fools.

How I wish I could be resident of shanty; foolishness of the books.
There words are silently sown, glued.

“This is how they are forged in brains.”

Powerless, unable to explain:
“Openness, awareness must come back.”
I am hung; cannot talk to hanger, closet.
Frozen, they are rigid.

How can I be detailed with the men tied in cave, Plato’s?
“Hey people…these are wrong… like dreams.”

The Oxford’s only right, on these words
In their past history, etymology, nothing more.