He was in a stagnant abyss.
At least that’s what he described.
Insipid, I think he said that, and
thinking all’s inconsequential.
Wrapped in a solitude, it’s strange
not to think like that.
Then he took on a lover.
Quivering in desire, the darkness
cascaded away even if it’s momentary.
Soul’s fragmented and needed to
be made whole. That’s its quest,
nothing else matters.
Prompt: Hey guys, I’ve started reading Haruki Murakami’s Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage. The title’s quite a mouthful. The last book of his I read was IQ84 and that one’s quite phenomenal. I remember there were two moons in the story. His stories are pretty surreal. But if you, like me, question reality, then you might just develop a taste for the surreal. Souls are surreal, aren’t they? However you frame reality, that’s your reality. Anyway this last novel from Murakami struck me as pretty dull–well I guess it’s the protagonist’s perspective. Aaargh. Write a poem that gives us the perspective of a protagonist. Hope yours will be sunnier.