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Archive for the ‘Religion’ Category

Search me, oh my spirit

at the riptide on my blue veins.

I am at the end of the line

in the deep ocean I lay.

I let the undercurrent shake

my foundations of faith

moored and hidden

a wreckage-

 

beneath the sea weeds

and coral cloisters

beached with visions.

Murkier as mud clouds,

adrift in liquid abyss

disturbed my soul. I

 

an abandoned cast-away.

The once mighty crusader

sailed the troubled waters

has now dropped the anchors.

 

Weighed down, crashed,

beaten and ravaged.

I had forgotten the buoy

afloat in its hope. Angel

caught in the maelstrom

shroud in its mystery

just like a prayer.

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At the phone, I stare

waiting for signals

burning like fireflies,

embers and ashes

through the wire.

Fall into thoughts

less words.

 

The longest night

of killing the hours.

Pushing freewill.

Catching Morse codes-

to smoke or not

to smoke puff floats

in luminescent air.

 

You win again.

When the cable lines

gather raindrops

hanging low, dazed.

And confused as if

glimmering like tears

I, since the morning,

broken at a distance.

 

Like other nights

betting on a chance,

my silence is born.

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Silence have snatched a life away

from my trembling hands,

out in the shadows

I only had screams

in my mind without a sound.

 

While in my room, there were movies.

Hours stretched with unfinished reels

of laughter devoid of warmth now,

embraces stale and cold I imagine

some sad movies of should’ve been.

 

I hear a voice of someone singing

loneliness that I don’t understand

like fire alarm bells ringing, piercing

into my soul, bleeding without blood.

 

Tell me the pain of being skinned alive,

impaled, staked and burned with fire

of the gaping void in my universe

retreating into its black hole.

 

Wake me up from this chasm.

Rescue me from this denial.

Rise me up from the pit.

From the quagmire of anger

rising and falling its tempest

like ocean waves I float

and drown in seasickness.

 

I’m not finished with you yet.

You’ve left me exactly where I am

unguarded, in shock and reasons

were not the answers to my questions,

why?

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I hate my photograph,

it is not me-who stare

at you behind the mirror.

That false reflection

with curved lips,

chinkee-eyed to greet

a hello. To whom?

 

I don’t want witnesses

to frame me in that split-second

prison cell of disguise.

I buckle down, and sweating

my bones, electrocuted,

dead nervous of strangers’

gaze into my inner being.

 

I hate questions.

I hate it when you whitewash

a harsh reality with a soft answer.

It’s a scalpel dissecting

an organ, trying to find

hidden tumor that metastasized

blood flowing a river

and then you drowned

along with drowning the negative

until it sinked in.

 

Please,  tell the doctor.

He is not welcome here.

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He keeps me shrouded in shredded pieces

sprawled and reclusive and momentarily

locked up vanishing in mediocrity.

 

Like someone who is afraid of the sanity

and Charles Dicken’s tale of two cities

and I never get to understand Virginia

Woolf, why her heart cries like a wolf

in the night longing for words as

earnest as Oscar Wilde. Dorian must be

some kind of lover of self and boisterous

as Ernest Hemingway. Not in the league

 

of imagination pours in my cup of tea.

Blood of ink flooding in my desk.

Days and days of wandering and wondering

where the words hide in the curtains.

That great expectation.

 

Lucky is Jane Austen for she can choose

not to be shrouded and shredded but

privileged unlike some Emily Bronte’s

Heathcliffe who tries to redeem romance.

Some hearts that pound in the will of the horse

and to kill a mockingbird of Harper Lee.

I hope to catch the rye like JD Salinger.

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I would like to remember

for the sake of remembrance

without fear of talking on corners

where echoes reverberate

within these four white walls.

 

I would like to visit a place

that is only half-remembered

where the streets are fading

against the foggy morning light.

 

Have they forgotten

or just being forgetful?

Frozen fingers of tree branches

on a bleak Friday morning.

Wisps of emotion numbed

by the chilly winds,

the pores of my skin

have forgotten to breathe.

 

The chances of longing

for somebody or someone

whom you have felt the time

when the blood on your veins

boil and burst with life. Inside

of you. That the world is

still a beautiful place, after all.

 

Just for this moment of expectation.

This soft prison cell will balm my soul

who wants to break out as a man

free like a butterfly

in its resplendent colors.

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Wood scars fray the edges of a sanity-

house paint color gave up its loyalty

to the surface weathered by seasons.

I am a man who leans against the backdrop

of grafittis’ with vivid emotions of discontent.

About an aching hand, bloodied by history

wrapped in white bandages soaked

in spiritual rhetoric. It didn’t stop

the bitter flow.  This hemorrhage. 

While bullets of sunlight streams within

dark passages to freedom fighting,

floating clouds above charred ruins.

The innocence held captive

in the hopes of winning

a logical war for a bitter peace.

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