Tuesday, October 21, 2014

the man who lost forever

my days in the asylum have been uninteresting. the slow repetitious bland of unvaried commonplace. colourless to the point of achromatic faded hopelessness. an emotion stemmed from my own end of ending ends. i live in this room of less windows. adorned with saddening uncharacteristic walls. these walls constantly speak to me in a language that no one, but only i, could understand. this barrier between the outside world and the world inside my head have become my confidant. my own personal echo. my stalwart compeer. my desperate achates. i find solace knowing that it will be here for me, even when i’m far or near or never here.

these walls, this cave of solace. my fortress of solitude. where i ponder all day everyday, the reason why i am still alive. my heart still beats in its cage. many times before in my mind i was adamant to admit defeat but my heart endured. despite all the heartbreaks it has gone through it beats still without missing a beat, not even in the slightest bit.

it took many botched attempts on my life until i was finally placed here in my fortress of perennial reclusion. i was assessed as being a risk to myself. i was deemed incapable of functioning orderly in the ordinary human socio-convention and was diagnosed with a melange of disorders. it has always been a point of reflection, to regard one's punctilio as disorderly. their peculiar behaviour might just be their average everyday constant.

i was not a stranger to the chair. even in my younger days as an eight year old arson, and throughout my kleptomaniac days as a teenager right until my phrenic escapades as an alien abduction survivor. my spine seemed to be accustomed to the contours of the chair. i could even feel the soft fabric under my skin overlapped with layers of clothes. even my eyes, affixed and properly transfixed to the person at the end of the chair. cross-legged with a pen and pad in hand. each time fixing their spectacles assuredly without blinking. even the questions, in a plethora of words to described one word became a norm to my ears. i answer each questions as easy as i were to say my name. even when my name changes every time.

i’m losing the war with the demons living in my head. here, they live lavish in a lull of lullabies. soothing my head with the quietude of a hammer incessantly pummelling thoughts into a pulp. a pulp of non-fiction. a factual favourite read for the mob, the crowd, the multitudes and all of the above. the ones i adore to abhor. denizens of an already filled deliberation and reflection of my unknowing of the known. but, i still live tempestuously. the only way i know. the only way i will.

i take walks around the asylum. my favoured place to end my walks would be the room where all people go. here the whispers in my head does not echo as much. it becomes more coherent as i become more enrapt with my surroundings. the room where all people go, was as huge as a banquet hall. but, filled not with food but with individuals who have bordered and crossed the line of sanity. rustic white walls make the cube that is the prison-like box. tall ceilings accompanied its already lonely ambience. you will never feel as lonely here than anywhere in the world. here is where i met the old man who lost forever. i found him at the corner, gazing out at the tiniest window the room had to offer. like the way i found him the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that day.

slowly everyday, i end my walks sitting next to the old man. gazing in tandem outside the tiny window the room had to offer. in slow, we became each other’s confidant in silence. we became the best of friends. much so, even the asylum operators called us “the two”. days of bliss, how i would described it, went by. complete bliss, further better than ignorance could offer. thirty one days went by as such. the old man, finally spoke to me. he turned his head as slow as the tiny window closed each night before the lights turned off. his eyes gazed at me. almost burning my soul whole, through the windows that makes my eyes. he spoke in slow slurs unhurried with a deep bass tone in his voice. his lips moved like how the waves move to the shore of that beach i used to swim as a child. rasping by clinging unto my hears until now.

he told me of a time long ago, where windows he looked out at had much more to offer. the windows a long time ago paints a scenic view of his children playing outside and his wife tending to her beloved roses. things were euphoric back then, he didn’t need to ask for anything else. until when, the last picture embed forever into his mind. his wife, tittering at the edge of the cliff looking at him with a tear falling down her face as she jumped backwards. the police after hours of searching found her body mangled in between crashing waves and sharp rocks, at the bottom of the cliff. he said that her last words to him was “don’t forget to feed the kids, love”. the old man then stopped talking, and gazed out the tiny window the room had to offer.

after that day, silence accompanied us again. i couldn’t decide whether the silence was more enthralling than that day he spoke. but, i was content as to how it is now. one day, i was at my daily routine. making my way to the room where all people go. moving towards the tiny window the room could offer. i couldn’t wait to meet my best friend. but, that day the chair he sits on is empty and i couldn’t find him anywhere. i was distracted the whole day with thoughts to where he is. the nurse that always attended to him came to me at the end of the day. she told me that my best friend died in his bed that day. she said the doctors knew nothing of the cause to his abrupt departure. but, i knew why. i didn’t say a word to her and continued to gaze out the tiny window the room had to offer.

from then on, my routine remained the same but the chair the old man used to sit gazing out the tiny window the room had to offer, became mine. my days have become solemn once more, when i lost my confidant. the demons that once was quelled, starts to stir more surely in my head each day. but, i still sit here, until my time then comes.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

the city overlooking the sea

here you are, knowing your end will be here. at the city overlooking the sea. a perfect setting, the magnum opus of all the mise-en-scène your mind could ever muster. the only question is where. will it be the scenic cliff or the inviting blue green sea? even for a man on the run for his end, you are still indecisive. the man who changed his name to escape the consequences of what he had done. a matter done, that cannot be undone.

it’s been a long time since you’ve arrived, and that was an event that mattered to the few who took interest of where you were. as usual, those few are declining constantly in number. in all the few, you had wished that it should have never been her. but somehow you knew, that she would have been the first to do so.

you try very hard to remind yourself of the flame that used to burn deep inside you in the time of your youth and hope. your feet have worn so many pairs of shoes, roaming the streets alone. walking on dirt paths, dirtying your worn shoes and dirtying the paved roads more so, with your sense of no direction. in those streets did you ponder how many emotions your heart muscle can endure anymore. in those streets too, did you lay your head to rest to sleep when the hours become late, losing your pair of worn shoes in the process.

in your travels, your self-imposed exile. you have come across every character and colour imaginable. even the ones your imagination could never conjure. even when you were a poet. but, you knew what they were. the makings of a temporary diversion towards the end that you are longing for. you knew that everything is endless, but nothing remains as it is. it is a lesson you learned in hard, with heart. learned right down to your bones, to the nerves; to your soul.

now, at the city overlooking the sea concludes your weary troubles. the landscape of the city with the sea behind it. in all its majestic glory it paints the tear in your eyes. you have always had a tendency for the sea. it is where you were always happy. you have drowned in so many seas, but you have never drowned deeper like this one. you pondered all your fallacies in this, this lunacy. the subtle makings of which you did not see, deep under the depths of this sullen roots of a tree. a tree of many quandaries. you approach the cliff in calm, without raising any alarm. you are still betwixt in your indecision, of all your options. only finally, did you come to the conclusion that it does not matter, anywhere or anyhow. you will still sleep the last sleep you would have slept. with a faith of leaping and the leap of faith that you would have leapt. 

so it begins, although it may not be the right beginning, but every story needs to start somewhere. just that here, it begins at the end.

Friday, May 30, 2014

the unnecessary death of "rug weaving"

 “you know, your actions are consistent to either someone who’s madly in love or just simply insane” he said in his thick turkish accent.

his burly balmy hands in a tight grip around my jugular. the pressure slowly sinks into my carotid leaving a large impression on my slowly diminishing oxygen intake. my eyes bulged, almost dropping out of it sockets. the tower that makes my artery is merely seconds away from crumbling under his violent clutch. until he lets it go.

i was hanging upside down in mid air, 30 feet over river rapids in 12 degrees cold. tied taut around the ankles with not-so-industrial strength rope. my second assailant, the one with the creepy voice has a linoleum knife at the ready to cut the rope and eventually my life.

i pondered my predicament. the road that lead to this aftermath i am in. it started with a girl (like it always have). i first saw her in the throngs of the waiting crowd at the arrivals lounge of the airport. there she was in the midst of shouting turkish men arguing over taxi cab supremacy. it was easy to spot her with her brazen red hair. she stuck out like a full bloom rose amongst dying leaves. i was sure her eyes was locked on me, but i didn’t take notice at first.

i saw her again the following day. i was sitting at a cafe, enjoying my cup of cay with tiny ottoman crumpets. i only noticed the scent of rose hips and jojoba lingering in the air. when i turned my head, i caught a glimpse of the same brazen colour of red walking away into the crowd. without hesitation i made chase, but she was gone like how she appeared. i’m a believer of miracles, but i’m not a believer of coincidences. i came to the conclusion that she was following me. from then on, at every corner i turn, i waited for a few seconds hoping that she would bump into me. on the fourth day, she literally did.

the same scent of rose hips and jojoba stung my nostrils. it was overwhelming, even when my nose swam in her hair for a moment. she backed away in an instant and said sorry. she wanted to hurry off but i stopped her and told of my speculative deduction of what she’s been doing the past days. she looked surprised and was embarrassed when she told me it’s true. she said sorry again, and told me the truth. she was a writer, and she was randomly following strangers as research for her book. i asked her, why me? she said that it was probably fate. i found her answer beyond satisfactory.

she told me her name is tugce. it meant “flowers in heaven” in turkish. i then told her my name, and it meant “rug weaving” in old persian. she laughed. i didn’t mind. with our complimenting love for prose literature, it didn’t take us long to be deep in conversations. although she was shy at first, it only took a polar bear joke to break that ice. she showed me the sights and sounds of the city of deep grey and red. only after midnight did we realise we need to go back to our realities.

in my reality, i could only remember the greys of her iris. the only pool of grey i would gladly drown into. i have never been lost in such pools. i can only imagine the exhilaration of losing grip on things i cling unto too tight. i’m not in love but i cannot help it. at that time, i couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning and be at her door knocking on her heart, at my heart’s content. all i wanted to say to her was, “what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is yours”.

the whole week goes on like how all romantic stories do. resplendent of love and sweet things with hints of spices. but all storyline needs an antagonist. in this one, enter oztek. the be-leagued former lover and self professed possessor of her heart. oztek has a pleasant demeanour and presence. a guy’s guy, despite being an important man in the local crime organisation. known for his take no prisoners modus operandi. he cuts an imposing and dangerous block on my love affair. it was evident in his first words to me when i met him, “leave her alone”. he then left wagging his middle finger in the air at me. i didn’t bother to ask why. without an airtight reason, i still pursued my end. so to speak.

she has always been in the background of my time in the city of deep grey and red. now, she’s in the background in the city of my demise. she looks as amazing as first i met her, even when i’m upside down in mid-air. she was crying for my life. her red hair wildly thrashing in the unrelenting wind. if this was the last picture i would see before i go, i really don’t mind.

“don’t say i didn’t told you so,” oztek snickered with his turkish accent still present.

it snapped me back into reality. i threw up in my mouth a little seeing his mug. his facial expression; smug. with a revolver in his hand. which i still think that it is bit of an overkill when you’re still dropping me into the river after. i’ll never get the answer to that because that’s when he fired the shot that pierced my sternum. i closed my eyes, and could only hear tugce’s piercing scream of “no” in the air. at that moment, i couldn’t decide which pierced the worst, the bullet or her resounding “no”. after that, the last thing i felt was my body falling into the river and the deep cold. when i was drowning in the icy unforgiving waters, i didn’t hold my breath and it wasn’t because i forgot to.

i died that night. a death utterly unnecessary, on so many levels. maybe you could say, for love. but for me, love was unnecessary at that moment and i wasn’t in love. but, i have no regrets. as of now i’m writing from the afterlife. i have not much complaints here. the horizon here is bleak but it still cuts my eyes where it did when i was alive. i could use a little bit more light here though, it’s really hard to write under these unfluorescent lights. i tried to bargain with my handler, the one in red with a pitchfork as a walking cane. unsurprisingly to no avail. also there’s so many doors to go through here. it’s tiring and annoying at the same time. all in all, all i could say is, kafka was right.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

a song of despair

At this hour, the rain hums grief; the lament of her hour of departure.
This beating cage aches, at her every gaze and the words her lips did not let slip.

In this hour, the silence lingers like how once my lips are closed underneath her fingers.
Time passes under dilapidating skies, like how her scent clung to my nostrils as she pass.

I would walk until dawn, devoid of sleep and in the deepest chasm, the void of yawn.
She once held on so dear, with her tear and her tear to see me in delirium; in clear.

I tread in slow her empty landscape, in a shallow grave on desolate plains bereft of escape.
To find is so short, to seek is forever as to how my longing is the search of my heart’s consort.

Turbulent was my climb, how the wind swallowed and rung the mind’s chime from time to time.
The sway although as gentle, like the mountains when it crumbles, in sentiments so subtle.

At this hour, I am under her spell; nothing would I remember, not even dreams only her, solely her.
Before day breaks, in her arms she would take, knowing my terror in mourning, unrelenting stake.

In this hour, I am in ruins, and her silent singing soothing hymns into ear whispers, into wind.
Holding countless tenderness, in her arms, her touch, her words, an immense dwell of tender wilderness.

This room haunts empty, there are ghosts in the walls, they remind me I would fall and fall in weary.
In many nights, in hours and hours of plight in wait on the weight of; to be painted by morning light.

The ampersand curve of her lips, I would trace with my eyes deathlessly until the picture turns in keep.
The meek of her voice I would hear even in the death of space, until spatial hunger brings me grace.

In solitary recluse, I open and read the books that she once touched, to feel if her touch endured.
Before dawn breaks, I sleep where her head once slept, until I am tangled in her hair again unkempt.

Brief was the adventure; the encounter of many kinds but desire stayed under the skin and grey contour.
To what is left, is the graveyard of kisses and the tomb that it erected under the guise of defeated ardor.

Time is scarce, but not the scarred fingers, the bitten lips, the kissed limbs, the ravelling of bodies.
She sung in bloom, the deranged marriage of hope and coma; the only heat that I know of.

That is her the death of me, the depth of me.

As I still muse that she is summer, undying.

Monday, May 12, 2014

the great georgian shambles

“lo and behold, not a single force on earth could stop the trembling of mine hands” the young man said, holding his hands high with the setting sun its background and the crashing waves of the ocean, its orchestric accompaniment.

“mine old eyes, grey but still can it see that thou bodice shaketh like the falling dead leaves of spring. then, perhaps thou need to be away from earth and all its mishaps” the old man replied with a tone of worry and concern. he look upon him as if he was his son, as his hand rest upon the young man’s shoulders, and the tight grip that ensues signalling that he should hold on and be stronger. a contradiction, to what he said.

the young man with the nostalgic vulnerability of an elephant catching a soothing scent that strikes all 5 of his human senses at once. it made him remembered a time he left earth. into the bitter cold and the deathless blankness of outer space. he called it, “vacuous death”. a stifling of freedom at its best, even without gravity and nothing to hold on to. the marriage of a torture between letting go or clasping on. it became his prison for many moons and suns, until he decided to fall again. the eponymous fall, that we all know, the one that we would search our whole lives for. he knew that, and he would not mind it, even one bit that the leap of faith might leave him to death.

“mine trying is not of not wanting. but, it is decidedly so. that leaving is not the answer in question. mine fault, is that this cage, this husk of a man that contains this decrepit soul is bereft of hope and strength,” the young man, growing more solemn by the second. “i shall not go, if i shall not live to leave.”

“ah, thou be the reluctant escapist,” the old man retorted. “escape is not a show of weakness, or whether thy art bereft of hope, mine young stalwart. it is only momentary, and like the running waters of the river it will only be the transitory that thou seek, deep within.”

“words are mere splinters at this moment, old man. mine only seek, are shards. cold hard shards, that could pierce mine lungs and set free the air that fills it.”

“then, it is decided. the weight will be lifted, after the faith and strength that thou art spared.”

the young man, paid more attention to the background of the menagerie of the setting sun and crashing waves. no more meaning, could pass through his mind now. but, he could only sigh, the static sigh that he only knew of.

the old man, knew what the young man was thinking of as he said, “ if thou seeketh great deaths and willing to go through the great depths to seek the length of thine death and depth. i shall not be part of it.”

“be not the maketh of worry, old man. tis’ quandary that i art be in, mine alone. i cometh here, alone, with nothing but mine skin and bones, thus ergo, i will go and leave as how i came. alone.”

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

she used to live here

she used to live here, and i miss her dear.

she used to live here, where life beats in this cage of mine. she lived free where she paid no rent, in between the aorta, the pulmonary artery. where blood flowed through, filled to the brim through my entranced avenue; my heart's rush, my heart's archery. i remember so well, deep within the wells of my thoughts, inside a world i live in and where i'm never afraid to go in. she was my cause of arrhythmia, my undecided utopia where i lost some of my heartbeats. i still have not claimed, the beats my heart skipped.

she used to live here, by the window, where the suns hits the sill. she sits there, right there, where the wood would creak every time she shifts her weight. her form, would catch the light and as she paints the scene with her silhouette. her legs bent, 45 degrees, angles her form in a common comfortable menagerie, as if she was dreaming in reverie. she sits there, hours on end with a book nestled on her knees. every time she sifts through the pages, i can see the calm stillness on her face, knowing that she was home.

she used to live here, in between these satin silk sheets. 10,000 thread counts of egyptian silk. it was almost, her skin. her skin was as soft, as supple, as if you were gliding through the clouds. in succession of cumulonimbus, cumulus; the thunderstorms and then the decisive calm. how it transpire, like fiery fire from the bosoms of hell as it gushes like magma spewing slowly into a miasma of sensation that ceases and settles into a final calm, after the storm.

she used to live here, in my arms. where she would lay after her weary travels, on my apologetic shoulderblades. my hands on the small of her back, and my lips on the nape of her neck. i would constantly sing her whispers, into her ears. sweet nothings and bitter somethings. everything that she would like to hear. my fingers will never fail to trace, every line and shape that makes her bodice. a perfect form, the greatest design and the highest echelons of marriage between form and function. the curve of her ampersand lips, i will never forget as it settles on my forehead in times of regret or delight.

she used to live here, and i miss her dear. like the severe tugs of the strings of the heart. like as if life, would slowly depart, rendering my heart; obsolete. as if affection, would live and then leave at the height of ardor euphoria.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

la guerdiya

only after sundown, right before sleep, i will be me. a mess of things, and remembering even the tiniest of everything. memories might fade, under the bitter cascade of pitfalls and waterfalls of our where-with-all and the never ending all descent into the alley of allegory transitory.

time is strange, like how it change into its changes and you are the strain that sought the rain that brought the strange hinge that hinges, this heart to yours; obscure. you were the cure and the tear that tore open this fissure of emotion. the passion and the impassion, that it brought in calculated algorithmic seismic tremors of fervor on the plains of the forgotten. this was the fever, the initial seizure that seizes on unflinching, clenching deep in taut and i, in thought brought that inevitable wrought to rot. and so, i saw you in my sleep, your body drowning in the deep trying to keep secrets you could not keep. i thought i heard a plane crashing and the sea waves crashing, but it was only then i heard the sound of your passion snapping.

you still cross my mind from time to time. in the lost last continents of time at the deep end of depend. i still cross your name in my mind and for long i would not mind with an unsure imaginary pen. you still instil the still echoes of still imagining pictures of my imagine. you, i still imagine with your air without care and the answers you gave to question existential despair. you were there still with the smile you did not smile, etching through daubs of paint on canvases made of pain for miles and miles. after all, even forever forevermore you were there keeping score on the long listless lore of myths and cryptic lifts on long listless lips. at times, i know nowhere; you are. that you know, where you are. knowing that you are, everywhere where we are. where we were, yesterday that days of yesteryear.

i still stand guard at la guardia, en guard; on guard nova secluria. to guard the past and the future that might come to pass and break free the solemn rememberings that have yet come to past. i still wait, for the weight to lift slowly gently over this shoulders that burdens this cinders to clear. i still stand guard, with a bouquet of tears and the smear of my fears that leeches through, right across the creases of forgotten kisses, that long-awaited avenue. that day, came dismay that was last may came maybe led me astray for so long among the waiting uncertain. and it is certain, that certain is for certain that i should have said that word unmentioned. you speak of immortality, and i have immortalized you in words mentioned.

i hated airports ever since.

Friday, March 07, 2014


these pages does not bleed like how i do. this ink does not have even the smallest inkling of how i feel. in this stasis, my emotions runs the gamut of white to grey and black and then back. a surf of the sea of surfeit sullen melancholy of ships sunken in between darkening daylights and the bright of night. i can never endure, days of young and nights of old without you. to come and breathe life into me anew and skew all nothings into a slew of shapes and promises broken in two.

i am accompanied by these shadows of you. where you used to be, right beside me. where the light brought upon the shadow of your body on my feet, where i lay in grey in repeat. sometimes, doubt casts itself in a deliberate iconoclast for memories, and i was faced with the conjuring of such accursed trivialities. i have stopped the world once, just to watch you swirl into my favourite colour. under the irreverent tender of incoherent whispers. the promise of not being under asunder, forever and ever until it rings into a cover under the darkness, as we persevere.

it is only a matter of time, that it gets dark again. as time and space moulds into a lovecraftian horror that my mind conjured into this reality anonymity. i submit my incentive was romance, and that it sets a present tense, as i watch the stars in a dance. only after several onlys, that the idea of lonely succumbs to the cranial acupuncture of missing that punctures through the loss and the grossly unfamiliar. we are both under the influence, only to speak of truth on that night we are used to be confused and that the promise made was what we ought to make. that night, it started with a simple touch through the amalgam of hues, red and blue.

the tangent intelligent and the circumference arc of conjecture. the π/pi that equates to the approximate equal of 3.1415. i desire nothing more and nothing less. as you make you through the dark abscess and the dark recesses of my conscience. only in the lab do they make do, the things that makes right and then two. we have seen it all, and the letters sprawled on the wall. the coming, and the unbecoming of our warning through the times and spaces.

will i see you again, in the state of such common and uncommon stance. will i dance with you, like how we did before in our steps of two. do we do, what we did before in a state of awe. do we take the light and soak in the sounds, and measure the details in an act of science so profound. will i find you, in the hours of the night and in the middle of nowhere at the lost and found. will we be here when each of us have left. will you start to live, when we stop leaving. will we visit the jetty of regret like we always do and how we used to. will the rain wash us away, like once there was dismay and we bid farewell in love's sway. will we shine like how the sun used to, a million years ago. will we be the same under these skies, without any other thing to bind with, our ties.

will these questions ever stop?

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

the girl who comes in dreams

"you have lift me up again and gift me to the trees," he said in slow. "let us run fast through the fields of feeling and over mountain tops of heart-rendering stops. let's swim through the ocean's falter and say that we will never stop"

she comes in dreams. where mortals lay in coils, coursing and stays entwined in perfect toil. a show of intricate delicate complications and utter spoils. she comes in dreams, where only mortals dream of, as she slips in and out of reality into reverie in perfect sewing seams, it seems. she lays there, at the edge of your realisation without care of the air that you share, as it caresses your skin under tender care. together, where you will bear witness, the bare nothingness of her echoing whispers that makes sweet surrenders, of which that brings about your heart's tranquil stop to a shudder. the beat in your heart will skip beats as you try to catch your breath and the pace of your feet. with hers, as she glides instead of the common mortal stride. until when, you're next to her side by side, that she stops her permanent fight, to hold your hands in a grip so tight. in haste but with gentle grace she brings about the flight through a cosmic delirium of nebulaic proportions.

"love, just close your eyes and pretend that everything is fine," she said in a tone of worry. "i'll tell you when.."

he saw, the earth fast shrinking behind them. it seemed to melt away, in a way where washed grey was lead to black in an attempt to go astray.  the imagery, reminded him of time long ago, and how she wore that dress that slowly made his eyes undress. in ocular address, it slipped his sight, as it cuts beneath the iris and his eyelids. he remembered what she said to him, as to what cause have given him the right to stray. where in living tombs does he stop to stay, but in the end leave and lift the darling buds of dismay. the clocks around him was ticking fast with every breath. he decided that day, they have been wrong and he has been part awake. he will never ever know her even for how long it took him to know for so long.

he knew then, that soon the rain will come to wash away. the earth that held him was no island, even for any man of any sway. he soon will grow inside a new skin, and find a way out through those islands so akin. when all his days, he became a castaway and believed that he will be wrong one day. only in time, will he question, "are you still a mess?"

"don't stay, run away. he has ordered assassination" she whispered to him. "it's our fault, this is what we wanted, this is where we lay."

"we didn't come this far, just to turn around," he replied her with his eyes still closed.

he woke up from his trance, as he realised the dream he was in now starts to mold into a never ending black hole. he can see many enemies poised and within his circle of sight, gathered in ready for the fight. he knew what he had to do, to ride the tide of life and search for the arms that brings about this rife. all around him, fire started to rise but he loved the heat that burned his skin. he knew, she is there to guide him out of this maze.

he looked to her and said, "i guess we could say that we could set this world ablaze. please love, please take my hand and take my soul to rest, so that we could always be around."

in faltering footsteps and into dead end paths. his hands in hers as she leads the way as they watched his world falls all around.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

and the mountains caved

and the mountains caved.

like how we use to when our lives were apart and undecided kismet was not yet set, to part. to part and impart the story that would become the epic saga of our lives. as before and as if like it was, we will not falter in any matter, under no circumstance that could hinder us. like the cave that was once before, majestic in its ardor and splendour, like how we are before our after.

as it will always do. in times of great distress, in the dark recesses of our recess. where we will obsess on how things are there to be clear and to be of infinite process. whereas things are not as simple as it seems. they are the lost listless hope of the process that requires the fall into oblivion and the prerequisite of the mental anonymity amongst the leagues and scores of innuendos and euphemisms created through this tundra of a cold and desolated land.

as we thrive through this pass of reticence, we will weave through a sort of sleep for lovers. an asylum forever in our heads the perfect seam and sieve that holds and binds us into this threadlike and intrinsic revel of revelations. this is the regard and the synonym to the cerebral connotations that our irises might leave, at the corner of our eye. where we will blink and in every point of time we will never miss, who we once were.

we care not of words that time forgot. only mere colloquial conundrums that seemed alien to us. the hushed tones in alien tongues, introduced to our limbic ether, in our regions of the nether. the sheer clear of it all, our transparent fall. that only offers the solitary ambiguity that we seize and take charge of between the hours of none and therefore we become one. we make things and forget that to make we beget the wheel that spins our will into the ultimate chrysalis-like catharsis that we so desperately need in the help to achieve our static sigh belief.

there will be a time where, we will meet consequence on the veranda of the heart and we will go and inquire of matters that from and beyond fruition come to pass in an exalting threshold of deliberative tug and pull of sentient things.

in pure dismiss, we will miss our start and the little pieces that we mend on our little hearts. even at taut, even in a sort of furore that caught ethereal bliss. the surreal sanctuary our minds will mould into. like the discussion of telepathical miracles. guessing and making innuendos with euphemisms effortlessly in our minds. in the simplest of things that being us, we will be one and next to zero none. our own objects of singularity in our chase of existence objectivity. rhythmic algorithmic colloquy is where we venture and there it will be our conjecture to puncture the reality that surfaced on a surface of parallel universes. in thought, this will be the mathematical desire of our lives, that would transpire into the end of what we need to send, without a sense of retire. that sense of temporal judgement on temporary troubles of visionary abandonment.

this things that we shall acquire, will look on to transpire into the sure fire power of jet fuel and desire. the food to our already traditional trade of bitter tirades and the things that we shall forget in future promises unkept and forgotten.

and to this end, will we still crave, as like in the past the mountains still cave?

Saturday, December 07, 2013

the air without care

"a fair air, that we could share?" she said in a humbling tone.

she looks into the distance, in lost listless disposition. emanating the quandary that she was in, blaming the furore that was before. the one fault, opens a vault of faults, at best a sense of aplomb in the catacombs of diversionary visionary troubles.

"the air that we share, is the pair of us, without care. only the dare that with which we bring out of our lair of hearts at default," he said in melancholic reverie listlessness, as if it was painted into the wind as he joins her looking into the distance.

they have been intrepid travellers of this air. that air without care, that carries the blithe and zest that encircles their lives and the kismet that brought them together. if not, at all. they were, the masters of their fate, as they would like to believe. a state, where they could carry the whole weight of the world. that gentle swirl, and the whirl into the whirlpool that makes their lives. and the surefire danse macabre, that they intent in intense.

Friday, November 15, 2013


he sits on lush green grass atop of a tiny hill, overlooking the lush tall green ones in the meadow. the setting sun, shone through the wispy trees with trails and trails of trailing hanging leaves. serenity would not beg to differ, on how this mise en scène resembles it. if tranquility was a soul, this would be it's home.

this was their spot, their place. their chosen enclave of solace, in which where each other, they would embrace. hours and hours on end, like how in the hourglass time is measured in sand. with pace none of their concern, only words of grace and touch of their hand.

she was in his thoughts, a goddess. a goddess among goddesses. a divine magnum opus of stellar craftsmanship. her beauty was electric and enthralling, as if she was god's hypnotist. she would turn heads in a room, like how sunflowers would turn towards the sun. with her lips, that hint of delectable capillary red, no one would dare not hear what she would say or take their eyes away.

he misses her, more than ever now that she's gone. fate took her away, but fate dealt it's hands in another way. she is still with him, right there in the meadows. everything of her, bundled into this body of joy and she's running in the fields with the lush tall green ones.

"aura," he shouted trying to peek through the shrubbery looking for signs of life. "aurelae", he shouted again, worrying.

"yes, baba" a girl answered, slowly appearing through the tall thick tuft of nature as she ran towards him.

his relief, can be seen in the reflection of the sun is his eyes, with his daughter running towards him. he said the last words how he would have said to her, if she was still beside him.

"it's time to go home, love"

Friday, October 25, 2013

a fair affair

"have more somber words escaped your lips?" she asked, as indelible dismal lines etched itself on her face and in the small horizon of water in the pool of her eyes.

all he could focus on was only her lips, as it moved in slow-motion technicolor in his head. her lips is that tender bounce when your cake fluffs up baking in the oven. her lips is the waterbed, you can't help but drown into after a long day at work. her lips is the exterior of an apple that you would bite into with gusto, only that blood would gush out. but, she wouldn't mind that.

he concentrates on the cigarette she was holding in between her fingers, as the smoke that it emits runs concentric puffs of white and grey into the air. his eyes follows as she puts it in between her lips, inhaling and exhaling the bitter taste. that taste, bitter in essence, even more so in meaning. her bitter sentiments and her complete disregard for worldly things and her own well-being. a part if not all, why he fell in love with her. he smiled a delectable smile inside, remembering how they first met.

"it's only fair" he finally answered her as he tries to look away, as far as his eyes could take him.

"only for you," as she blows the last puff of her dying cigarette. "we were suppose to make it, if not for the future, for the present"

he knows that it was a decision of a younger man, deciding what he decided 2 years ago. he was too young to keep good love from going wrong but she endured. a suicidal endeavour, he thought at that very moment at the start. something that begun as abrupt, could only end as the way it started and dissipation is something you could only hope for. this hope was a thread made of air, the thinnest air there is.

"as much as we are or we were, we are going nowhere" he said slowly as he turned to walk away.

her eyes, welled up like a thousand wells as she said, "but, nowhere is somewhere I will go with you".