change of vantage

There are absolutes between true and false
that you can’t see between lies and truths.
They are simpler whereas lies are twisted
and truths might be parts of another—faceted.

You can make true and false into many things,
and fabricate just as many that makes lying
just patchworks of facts and otherwise,
and truths as puzzles—visible and not—to the eyes.

It’s simpler to speak in ones and zeroes—absolutes—
than in pages and paragraphs, in alphabets
and tongues. Logic is just simpler than reason;
following formulas is easier than comprehension.

For one cannot equal zero, but words
change as throats dry and pages yellow.
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Empty Spaces

The sky seems grey even with clear weather
and the sun screaming its perfect day.
The clouds drifts past fast but the air
seems stale having lost its way.

Deaf-tone birds sing monotone tunes
in jagged rhythm while trees tower
leafless in endless ordered columns.
Droning about after every hour.

Motionless still, what is there left for us
if there is even any that’s left of me,
or of you, or of anyone not yet dust?
Where do lost souls go to be free?

Caught between prisons, we hone in on
empty spaces inside each other as home.

Where to?

There’s a museum thirty minutes away from here
and as much I love the exhibit, I’ve been there
done that. I’d walk in with a sketch pad, a tablet,
or whatever thinking I’ll study art, be motivated
until I walk out the door not having drawn anything
and having gotten home still stuck daydreaming.

The bay walk is farther, an hour away, but walking
along the paved walkway taking in sea and rushing
cars on the avenue beside seems like a walk outside
reality in a canvas of grey cityscape and the seaside.
I’d pause and look around the waves crashing
and the still buildings stuck in time yet ever moving.

There’s a cafe I really like, fifteen minutes away;
it’s a reprieve from the dull routine of work days
and a haven for birds of the same feather seeking
rest amidst the downpour of keyboards clacking
and screens glaring before calls and talks like thunder
rumbling. It’s a respite before the storm hits harder.

And there’s home, if it can still be called as such
having been invaded and become just as much
work than home. There’s nowhere to come back;
what was home, all I see is overwhelming lack
of what to call home. I’m lost in nowhere and no
one is there. For where else to go, I just don’t know.

A String and Two Cups

We throw our feelings around like whispers
along a string and two cups; in garbled sound,
we sing of sweet nothings and swerve around
what loud troubles and traumas we hold dear.

We’ll play pretend as rattling cups become calls
to whomever we find willing to lend an ear;
but we’ll lie and make our hell seem much better
than the journey that’s now like an endless fall.

With hope—or rather the lack thereof—we pull the string
and wait for a pull from the other end. With hope,
we put a dismal cup to our crying ear to cope
for the emptiness we find absurdly suffocating.

And even with the string taut, there’s deafening
silence between two lost souls simply waiting.

A leaf along the stream

A vague haze over a silent stream,
a leaf falls from the canopy
breaking the cover, stirring
gentle waves like flowers on water.

Akin to fire works, except not fire
but water. Fading quickly
like glimpses of past memories
and hopes dashed with inaction.

Gravity pushes the leaf down
from the sky, and the stream along
the earth; and such the leaf too
by the stream pulled down elsewhere.
author’s notes

On How I Write

I did not see it and then I did:
so pay attention.

What good are these words,
that makes you ponder the vast and unknowable
in the misfortune of others.

Here be the stories we tell ourselves.
Instead, ask what I wouldn’t give
and I’ll tell you
strength like a memory I’d always wanted to make.

“It’ll happen by chance”
Time, peculiar like magic or poetry,
pouring out its oscillations.

And. Then. And Now. I was. I am.
Last night the moon took me back
and a heartbeat that is rising
is a parallel universe,
just fleecing of the cold.
Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt

The gift of creation

I’ve seen many worlds, many realities;
varying rules and magic that define each
and the multitude of links and chains that tie
me to every single one. In mind. Within reach.

They are dreams but as dreams, they can be
nightmares too. Claustrophobic walls of the mind
shaping each fabric that I inhabit. Fear, despair,
anxiety; locks without keys—just chains and binds.

In however much the many worlds can fit,
so too must all endings play. In as many
door closed, books ended, journeys done,
so too a new one found and just as many.
Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt

Waves of the Ocean

There’s a ferry
by the ocean carrying sand
and all sorts of floating and unanchored
stuff.

They’d take from
the shore, and ruffle with what
they have, then throw it all way back to
the beach.

They’d puff up
clouds of sand along with froths
of water; rearranging patterns embedded
on shore.

They’d ferry fish
and urchins and corals and
jellies, stars, and any sort light enough to
pull and

push as the ferry
goes about deep to shallow and
shallows to depths unknown, currents far
and near.

The ferry comes
as the wind blows, as the water
flows. In wave after wave, carving the sand
by sea.
Na/GloPoWriMo Prompt