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Posts Tagged ‘empty’

Empty handed you go into spaces

searching for  souls like collisions

of grey shapes stumbling down

into staircases heading for exit.

 

Pass this way. They are the reflections

of glassy things you see staring back

at you- images of the sun battling

against the rogue winds. Then peace

 

will come knocking at your door

peddling its sepia stained photographs

and pushing nostalgic emotions

tethered to your distant past.

 

You will not allow it. You will pretend

as if you’ve come a long way from there

and someone has to understand

that they need to break down

 

the concept of the old life you are not

now. Though they won’t applaud changes

and alone you have to float like a river

where myriad of dreams are waiting

 

to become realities and rarities.

You have to be lighter than feather.

You should embrace memories

like the colors of the rainbow.

 

Unmindful and undeterred by fear

gripping like empty boxes and chains

to the blank spaces waiting to be filled

with courage to break through walls.

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It is like me, filling the blank spaces with letters

and thoughts I- only I could understand you

and me. And why do we need to belong each other.

Balloons need to fill in with air and float. To be free.

To go to some places and leave monotony.

Car wheels imprinting its destiny on a lifetime

of wanderlust, embracing wide open spaces.

 

I try to skip around fear. Dodge people’s gazes

piercing through my self-made envelope of distrust.

Like a cloak I shielded myself away from someone’s

intrusion, uninvited to enter my world. I own. This room

of living the years full of questions of why do we need

to belong each other- keeping a stranger to my house.

 

And now I can see, that this page is getting crowded

with thoughts I- only I could understand you and me.

It is like a bottle of wine emptying its last night’s discontent.

It is like a pack of cigarettes I consumed of inhaling

and watching the wisps of smoke thin out of dreams.

Wind will carry the tides farther away to the horizon

but you know it will land on somebody else’s shore.

 

I need not to bring my own footprints.

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His past smells of a ditch

drying up its putrid stink

as stale as the street air.

It belongs to a smoggy neighborhood.

In the memory of tattered rags

flapping like flags on the clothesline.

As if dreams can be scavenged

out of the hilly mounds

of garbage, dumping its gifts

of someone else’s trash turning

into someone else’s fortune.

 

No one cared about armpits

getting wet and sour for hours,

as long as the bad odors

can promise him little money

to buy fish sauce for rice.

Sniffing heaven on earth-

little angel never complaining

about life, about the linger-

of those occasional whiffs

from the broken sewer.

Nor the rising sting of steam

emanating from his broken skin

pierced by the cruel sun.

 

Nor inhaling the dry cough of cars

and buses farted poison.

The way he exhaled yesterday

walking on a pavement slow,

feeling the throbbing locomotion

churn on his empty stomach.

A street urchin squeezing the crowd

like a fly hopping on a hope

above the grease and grime

that smeared a childhood.

 

He won’t cover the past

with today’s perfume

nor sanitize its images

in suds of detergent.

He’s not ashamed

of the scent of his past-

the smell of poverty

that swarmed his innocence

and have walked

the muddy line across

the nook and cranny

of his every bones.

He survived them all.

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I sense a dark storm is looming over.

Someone told me that I should not be afraid

of all the tragedy impending.  Even if the winds

blow me empty at will, I should not cower.

There are intruders- those unwelcomed visitors

breaking and entering the skin I lived in.

 

I forgot the keys, my memory slips

down in the labyrinth of forgetting.

I search for clues, deciphering a code

among the pages in the book of days.

 

I misplaced the sign- “don’t disturb”

among the shards of broken plates,

of broken glasses in the kitchen.

Where did I put our picture frame?

 

I can only hear whispers from strangers

whose faces I have seen for the first time.

Ruling my house as if they’re kings and queens

breaching  a territory, our serfdom of privacy.

 

I blame these disrespectful marauders

for letting me swim deeper into the pool.

I got tangled in the maze,  finding myself.

Don’t they know it’s an abyss down here?

 

Don’t they know how it feels to get lost

sinking deeper among piles and boxes

of photographs, of letters, searching-

a faint remembrance of the two of us.

 

They keep on robbing me of something.

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We walk along the beach to see

the happy couples like us staring at the ocean.

And see how the waves come and go

subduing our blues, buried under the sand.

Did we become a tourist of our own,

devoid of pleasure on being together?

We walk like solitary man and woman

glancing sideways, avoiding leisure

as if children were lost running both ways

chasing happiness out of sight. Dreaming

of lost balloons. Of lost kites. Of empty boats

bobbing, floating and drifting away.

We smile blankly and falsely wonder

about the beach umbrella blown in the wind

and the white surf racing past each other

to reach you. And me, while I am trying

to mute down my gaze towards a space

where shadows of people begins to fade

under the sheltering weight of the high noon.

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He stares at the frosted window,

dreaming of pigeons in flight.

Probing shadows in his oblivion

while the neighborhood is asleep

on this night bathed in blue light.

 

His heart refuses to surrender

to someone else’s handwriting.

 

He’s an outsider, perhaps a victim.

No one knows how he spent hours

imagining a beautiful world.

Unable to express, struggling

for a line to be understood.

 

An empty love bleeding sentences

that can never be written.

 

Such beauty, a flower in the field

belonging to some lucky bee.

Jealousy hits his innocence

like a knife to a man’s desiring,

leaving his wounds unhealed.

 

For the lady who reads letters

from some scented envelopes.

 

There is blood in the trash bin

and it does belong to him.

Among the crumpled sheets,

the fingerprints and drops of ink-

a memory of his scarred sanity.

 

How he endured the paper cuts;

this man’s life in blank pages.

 

The postman didn’t come today

and the letters were undelivered.

No one has foreseen death’s coming-

such as his knocking on doors

and opening of mailboxes, each morning.

 

They found a fountain pen in his hand,

motionless and still- in cold blood.

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