the puddles are scattered
on an afternoon
as the snow melts
into the day.
and as the heart
falls into earth.
trying to find the roots
it thought
had started to become.
bleeding.
© Hudson BIko
Tag: creative writing
alone
the wind blew
into bones.
it was winter.
the beds were cold.
and sometimes
the thoughts fell into
others. each strangling.
living in a past
gone. but sill felt.
still here.
in this moment.
where the beds were
as silent
as the nights.
where the nights were
as cold
as the beds.
and sometimes the bullets
fired.
close enough
to feel close enough.
close enough to
chase faces
into vices
that felt a whole
lot like warmth.
and no one cared.
© Hudson Biko
raft
when the sun
swivels into marvels
of a sky
painted by the late afternoon
we say goodbyes
to days
set ablaze
by the haze
of places
set in tables
served by a distinct
longing for the satisfaction
in better tomorrows.
longing to be filled.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Alexander Andrews
deliverance
days
they speak of days
that roll into
those that
follow.
and sometimes when those
days feel
less
like days
and more like
life. then it
feels as though I’m
doing something right.
i don’t know why. but
lately. for me. they
have felt more like
patterns. drawn at sunrise.
played out by
sunset. began
again. passing through.
and yet. I am
well. I have
life. the
calendars
have turned
and there is
more to come. I
don’t know how
long it will
take. but i will find sunrise.
again.
hopefully. within
myself this time.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Michał Grosicki
hudson biko 