Inescapable lures;
Deflated mornings.
I’m afraid
That I shall never break free,
Uncuffed from crippling yearning,
Emancipated from the cage of
Forever falling.
Innocence besmirched
By those who criminalize,
Prosecute and Villainize
The conjured up,
Perverted me.
Condemning
In blind contempt,
They know not
That I am Purity,
Too bright,
Too shrouded
For them to face
And realize.
“You love playing with that. You love playing with all your stuffed animals. You love your Mommy…your Daddy. You love your pajamas. You love everything, don’t ya? Yeah…But you know what, buddy? As you get older, some of the things you love, might not seem so special anymore. Like your Jack-in-a-Box. Maybe, you’ll realize that it’s just a piece of tin and a stuffed animal. And the older you get, the fewer things you really love. And by the time you get to my age, maybe it’s only one or two things—with me, I think it’s one.”
—Staff Sergent William James speaking to his infant son. The Hurt Locker.
We live in
A Lonely,
Loney
World.
We rarely
Pay Attention
To One
Another—
The times
We do,
We expect
Thrills,
Something-Something
Brief,
Something-Something
Inducing
High
Stimulus—
No room
For elaborate
Words,
Regardless of
However
Genuine
They might be
In their
Intents.
We only
Care
To See
The fragments—
Fragments like this,
Not tiring,
No sacrifices
Made—
Dry,
and
Convenient.
A Friend and I
Like to,
Every so often,
Crawl our way out
During vacant nights—
Plunging ourselves into
Places
Where we would hide.
Cloaked under loud music
And dim lights,
We play wolves
Who never tire—
Gorging on skin beautified,
Flesh tenderized,
All by the forgetful
Darkness
That brings
Temporary delight.
The Rain came down
And washed all the Noises
Away—
For the first time,
I was taken astray,
Far away,
To distant Lands
Where I would find myself
Steady,
Free to breathe the same
Air
Of consistency—
So that no matter where
My feet settle—
The Sierras or
The Himalayans,
I would still keep
That which
No Man
Can ever take away.
The Wheel of Fortune spins
On and on—
There will be days
Of Prize collecting
And days when Luck
Is seemingly gone.
But It Goes Like It Goes—
Not much Beef
In what’s been done.
So go on and on,
Counting winnings while
Accepting losses—
The Days are very bound.
There is a pair of cardinals that would pay their occasional visits to the backyard. Though I am not entirely sure of their flight routines, I am aware that their appearances seem to be bound by a periodic pattern—the details concerning its particular time intervals have always eluded me.
With agile and energetic maneuvers, the two birds would glide up and down among the tree branches and garden furnishings. And because of the vibrant red-orange of their feathers, one can hardly take his/her eyes off them anytime they are anywhere in sight.
Today, for the first time this year, I had the fortune to see these lively, magnificent creatures again. With winter nearly to its rear and spring yet to have sprouted it first buds, at a glance, the yard is still in shades of withered, yellowish-gray. This made the winged guests especially eye-catching, for their fiercely bright coats sharply contrasted the stark hues of their surroundings.
Having spent most of the day like a ghoul, the sight of these cardinals brought forth relief, coupled by a sudden change of heart; their presence rebelled against and defied all that has perished outside: desiccated stretches of grass, leaf-less, snarled trees, and naked dry earth—all void of any vital sign. Yet there they were, alive and in flight amidst the dead, like messengers of Hope, delivering a kindred torch of life to the ones still living in bleak times.
A Brother told me
That He cared for
Other people, and that
He wished to help them.
Though He a Brethren,
I could not believe Him.
Maybe it was because
He wore a passé
Track jacket, and
Sweat pants full of lint.
Or it could be that
His face was covered in
A slew of horrid
Craters—
Something that pegged Him
For a serial killer.
Or was it me,
Who is of little Faith,
Had simply refused to believe
Any Good?
Love can be a torturous thing,
Like poisonous tumors under the skin—
Thousands of desires itch and fidget
Manically
In the Iron Cage
Of veiled longing—
Terrified to tear apart
The vague friendship
That Kindles a secret,
Lonely heart.
Particular Moments 