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Posts Tagged ‘trace’

Your orbit may find you

in an unending cycle of hiding

and showing up across the sky.

Like a shepherd tethered

to your protection I slip

a chance and probe the map

where you lay all your secrets.

 

The night clouds veil

a silhouette of gloom

while wind chills my heart

and waits until the waning light

travels the length of this room.

Leaving a trace of dewdrops

glistening of little stars

to my skin aching and wanting.

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It’s like a white plate.

Soiled and you try to wash it afloat

with suds of soap and rinse repeatedly

at the sink.  Letting it dry and wait

until the film of water subsides down

into its gleamy surface. You try to contain

the glister.  The immaculateness of being 

unbroken, unsplintered.  Fragile.

 

It’s like a white paper.

Someone will throw dots and smears.

Smudges  and graphite dusts messed up

into your  page and jag the lines into visual noise.

But then, an eraser is a confident friend,

swiping them all.  Albeit,  the indentation

marks a heavy trace on the heart. Not quite

visible at the distance, I know.

 

You didn’t notice how I try to write the lines.

Ambiguous as it seems, indirect in its approach.

You think flaws are the darkness of the soul, but wait-

it isn’t that way you know, though. For in it you hope.

You dream.  You strive to become the light.

You seek to define the completeness of your whole,

unwavering  and uncompromised to the mold-

the dictates of the common.

 

No matter how broken it may get, the mosaic

of the plate is still a creation on a canvas.

No matter how crumpled the paper was,

someone will see it as a great work of art.

You try to accept the way you live your reality,

where living doesn’t stop there, it’s in how

you would be able to discover something new.

A difference you can call your own.

 

It’s like a white space.

When the horizon of doubt blurs

the line that separate you from immortality.

And all you see is your own lightness

that no shadow would keep you

stalled towards your destiny.

There,  you would know that peace

is the only way to move on.

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She took out a folded piece of paper

from her pocket. A handwritten note

she would read again. Then say,

“He loved me and I still believe”.

“He is from Oregon, an American”.

 

She hid this keepsake along with

a photograph.  Of a white man smiling,

in uniform, besides a military truck.

Her fingers would trace the line

of the man’s face, remembering.

 

When she first served him a drink,

seeing him there ever since. Then,

to her the bar transforms to a place

where promises of crossing oceans

were not so distant like a dream.

 

But they left. Leaving behind sadness

that will fill her days as she waited-

for her man to return and take her away.

To a place where the color of her skin

will not matter but a heart that she fully gave.

 

Year after year, she stayed while clearing tables

and washing dishes. Cleaning them spotless

and white again, counting them like days

she will have to wait. Leaving this place

crossing oceans to dream with her man.

 

Still, no news of him. Maybe, tomorrow.

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When all the lights have faded.

When all the sounds have died.

A choice have been made between a mother

and the life that struggles in her womb.

Tonight will be the darkest hour.

 

And her whisper became tiny wisps

of breath unheard. The elusive spark

of love by the palm of her hand.

Searches for a missing pulse

beating to the sinews of her flesh.

  

But fate snatches the dream away

like thousand  daggers piercing

into her wounded soul. It became

the bitter part of the past she cannot

forget. A stain of pain that won’t go away.

 

When once a beautiful journey cut short

of a distance into her fragile memory.

The silent tears through all the years,

remembering a child without a name.

Stranger to a mother’s touch.

 

Not a trace of an angel’s smile.

Not even happiness lulling the little one

to sleep in her arms. She dreams,

she hopes of becoming a mother

embracing her child. Unborn.

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Please

don’t make promises

you wouldn’t keep.

As I am trying to feel

 

the traces of the past

deep in the crevices

of my wounded heart.

You never know how

 

words linger

in the precipice of hope

I am searching

the many mornings

 

rising to find, and wait

for the sunlight dying

down by the door.

Hoping still.

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Lines converge

into the center of our visions,

unhindered by picket fences.

 

Shuffling images on a collage-

brick walls in grafitti,

kites, flags and confetti.

 

The gaping surrealism

in cloudless sky of reverie. Fleeting

in the tail-end of comets.

 

Color trapped in spectrum

of rainbows and sandstorms

obscuring the bluest of hemispheres.

 

“The world was linear,

we exist in parallelisms.”

This is our perspective.

 

Have we understood

the secrets of the horizon?

Our dreams fading without trace.

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This pilgrim slowly falls

into longing.  Loneliness

hums along a prelude

to twilight.  The olden days

forgotten. Of distant past

revealed and was found-

in the lines of her song.

 

She sings of a sad refrain.

 

As if she knew the way,

retracing tracks to wounds

of a love lost.  A trip,

down the memory lane.

 

She sings

 

as if she knew this pilgrim.

Whose heart is keeping

a sad, hidden melody

left here at the station.

Unsung of someone else’s

 

story.  She sings

 

about broken promises.

About dreams fading

into the horizon.  About

memories slipping away.

Like trains not returning

 

this song’s sad ending.

 

Loneliness runs along

here at the station.

Tomorrow is another day-

down the memory lane.

 

And this pilgrim chose

to stay awhile, alone

past midnight.  Waiting,

as she begins  to sing

another sad song.

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