I am waiting to see the sunlight.

Photo by Luca Baggio on Unsplash

Touch and it will disappear, there’s no sense
against my skin but a feeling underneath—shivers
from the cold that leaves me in vain. Drifting away
at its own pace—taking its time because there’s no rush
in life, only those made up by the overthinkers:
transform and morph, the new contours
of shapes left up to our imagination. Summer days
lead to heavier storms—those that come will go,
and I will see the sunlight once more
before the clouds return again.



The daydreamer who seeks a little too much of that sugar rush.

Photo by Quincy Alivio on Unsplash

ring around and sing aloud
the songs of sweet harmony—melodies
live like stars,
always burning—bright and blistering.

the angels come along and bring
me to safety—soft
and sweet pillows of cotton bliss
soak up my spirit, until I begin to fall
with the cooling rains.

love never tasted sweet, like summer tea—
but bitterness is a nice complement
to the highs of lust and greed, a reminder
for the daydreamer
who seeks a little too much
of that sugar rush.

the stars will shine
and the rains will pour—only teatime for
the heated souls:

and now, I take all sweetness
with a pinch of salt.



I saw him from my window, listening to the music from my piano.

Photo by Lenstravelier on Unsplash

My music caught the pigeon’s eye.
From one note—a strike—
the birds appear along the bend,
and only one has stayed for me.

I saw him gently rest upon
the ledge outside my window.
I turned away, from the piano,
to look for company.

He felt my gaze—a pause—
and fluttered off
before my hand—the trembles—
could reach to the next key.

My piano plays
for the pigeon’s song—
though I’ll wait for long,
still, now steady.



When my calculations do not yield fruition.

Photo by Chromatograph on Unsplash

These vials run for miles
down the lane of memories.
With each, an experimentation:
accidental collisions
of molecular stories—against all wonders
and the walls.

Energy never dissipates—
it only passes on.
The heat is in the air:
who knew how much we’d care
for this random meeting—spontaneous, at best.
The irreversible mistakes
now clamoring at the wake.

A chemical reaction—
though my heedful calculations
could never yield fruition.
And so I walk for miles more
with serendipity.

©2022 A.X. Bates

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this poem, feel free to follow Sentimentalistsa publication featuring the outpour of all emotions in the form of poetry and prose.

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A.X. Bates

A.X. Bates


Words can make a difference. Theatre student writing poems about life, society, and coffee. @axybates on Instagram and Twitter.