Tuesday, October 03, 2006

neither here

it is my lot to live in between colours, words, cities, continents. no story is my own for i live between those of others. i can claim no mountains nor any sea. i belong to no one, no one belongs to me.

the end

it happened suddenly
and all the endings were washed away
each book, each story, each song ended
as questions i could not interpret, nor answer
this is a new madness
that of the living

angels

we are angels, you and i
and thus may never dream
no past or future for us
near perfect beings.
no tears nor giddy laughter
no hunger nor any hate
do you ever wish you knew
what sadness was
so you could paint it on your face?

listen, its singing

some see the beauty in the desert, are ensnared by the song of the shifting sand. for them the desolation holds a wild peace in its palm, and the parched land echoes of a primeval calm. but the song that is sung by the wet earth at night will never have a rival for me. it sings of plenty with a wanton tune, of abundance and riches in dark emerald hues. the purity of the desert may have its charm for some, but the jungle shall cradle my bones tonight.

transit lounge

there are a few places where we're all just the same. airports for one, morgues too I suppose; most places of transit, when you've left behind who you were and have yet to arrive at being anyone else.

bloody women

celebrate the ones that did not
die buried alive but lingered on
the ones who used their blood
for ink and others that bled
without uttering a word, cheer
for the ones who lay drenched in red
amongst the remains of dead flowers
and don't forget those that live by proxy
nooses around their neck
attached to ever hungry young bellies
crying their old tears

waiting for rain

it's hard to explain
a yearning for rain
but there a few who understand.
those who have cried away all their tears
and can see their futures dry,
faces brittle and hearts parched and cracking.
their eyes still shimmer from time to time,
the haze will clear if you look a little closer.
these are those with deserted souls,
praying for the rain
that never came
to settle the dust.

forgotten onions

love deferred
lives in the dark secretly
sprouting roots and shoots
it tastes of earth and carries on