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Posts Tagged ‘grave’

We have cried together, seeing

the pages of our lives torn into pieces.

And how we knitted to rebuild it,

and washed them like dirty linens

in the laundry. Just like a potter

we build and sculpt in us

a new mold of the world

we never knew existed.

 

We exchanged our boxes

of secrets and a set of keys.

 

We swore by the heart. And

made a vow that we would keep

them locked and tightly sealed.

That we would be keeping each

other’s stories, only to ourselves

and no one else. And for the longest

possible time, it  has come to a point,

a reckoning. The seal of promise

had been broken.

 

Unlocking my box and spilling

the foam of words into little teardrops-

they fall like brimstones and fire

from the night sky, now. And the moon

must have hidden its face turning

into red, in anger and in shame. Bleeding

in the agony of a broken promise.

An impending death to a friendship.

 

Still, I am keeping my silence, thinking deeply

if it is worth to hide your keys in my pocket?

If keeping your box tightly sealed, or at once,

let them out in the open, will exact revenge?

While my flesh quivered at the thought

of why would you dare crossing the line,

betraying my trust. While my bones splintered

at the thought that I would dearly want you

squirm in your own bloodbath, redeeming self.

 

But I decided not to. 

 

Letting the ghost of your betrayal haunt you down

into your grave. A tormented soul, wandering

the dark halls searching for some kind of atonement.

Asking forgiveness.

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The walls are coarse to touch, hard and steely,

it was a challenge not to see but to feel with our fingers

sharp points that will prick a skin and bleed. By then

the grave of the earth has avenged its loss. The stair

is a winding wonder of wooden realm. Forest scent

permeates like sweat staining musk to the olfactory.

Curtains we plucked from the fibers of the grass

that exist  in some temperate savannah, polished

and handwoven by the nomads of Siberia.

The glass came from the silicates we scoured

from the rivers of Babylon, coal-fired in a furnace

by a hundred men impoverished with ten cents an hour.

And the floor is a polished limestone quarried

from some majestic mountains of the Far East. White,

cold slab, for our feeble feet resting on a tombstone. The chairs

are fabricated in hides separated from the meat of animals

domesticated and cultured for a trade in an African jungle.

We commercialized the organic in the will of the greedy generation

crazy for the avant garde. We are fond of collecting. Prized.

Natural. Unique. All, for the sake of a want  that cannot be satiated.

And at a cost, we hunger for more as we build our little kingdoms,

looking for some definition. Until we find that there is no more left

of the skin of the earth, we have stripped of its clothing

to cover our shelters.  Unless we travel to the moon

digging kryptonites to embellish facades of our own vanities.

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Nobody knows. As I perched on these white washed  stones, I will begin to unload another hour of litanies circling in my mind.  The gray clouds above me might have said that it equalize the heaviness of my feelings.  Once again, I have left the crowd and find myself curled up beneath the shade of this old tree.  Standing there, just like before, as my friend and an ever loyal witness to my secret rendezvous with someone.

I have braved through the maze of strangers before.  I might  have appeared to go unnoticed.  An ordinary human being traveling along with some nameless strangers that equally share a space in this world. Not knowing where to go and where their footsteps might lead them to.

Such in a trance, I walk past the silent gates of this haven.  A humble abode for people, who one time, have walked upon this earth.  I do not know them. Or even their names etched in epitaphs fashioned in gold. As if, in their afterlife, they have extended a piece of their mundane places.

I do not know how good or bad they are. What I know is that, they might have exhausted their lifetimes searching for some semantics.  Some signs.  Some meaning. So elusive, that some have given up trying to find it and settled to believe that theirs is their own mettle. Their own pot of luck.

I might have my day’s fill of melancholy.  The same routine I did many years back when I also try searching semantics.  Some signs if I have hit it lucky or just push myself on the bottomline. Some meaning to find that I have not lost the games I have took my chances playing on and believed it might have some worth trying harder everytime.

Grandfather, we had this before. Always, as I am sitting here as if my silent voices you have heard beneath this patch of earth might find its way to the wailing wall.  No one will ever see me cry except you.  For I believe, that no words can ever transmit the depth of questions I have inside.  Like a grave, it has also turned my heart  into a pit where the deafening silence might have engulfed them and have them tightly sealed.

Even if hours turned into aeons.  And the grayness of clouds have touched my head, seeking  and seeking still. Only to find, that my days are numbered.  Spent another half of my  life searching and living in this predictable cycle of life.  One day, I will join you and I will be another departed who might turn cold like these white-washed stones.

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