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Yearnings of Youth

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  The rain reminds me of the days of my youth, days of the yore. Young still, at face, but the heart has been tattered by the trials of time. The soft rains sound like a storm on the fragility of my skin. I ran a race legless and loved heartless and now youth has fled, like smoke from a chimney in a crematorium. I wish for a taste of what it was to be young and foolish. Like a musician fighting to outdo the canary, I know the vanity of these yearnings. Maybe life has been the teacher I missed in my germination. Maybe it will teach me better in death. They said that indeed youth is wasted on the young and wisdom on the old, and from where I stand, I am a product of the wastage of both, for time is fleeting fast past me, and bless me, wisdom is a distant memory. I remain the sinner that grace abandoned, and the kind eyes that once looked at me turned maleficent. The yearnings of my youth is to find the love that fled, but I’m a beggar who has ridden the fleeting horse way too many
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The Window Sill

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  The soft sheets of rain brings back memories of a time when she was alive, a time so far gone, overtaken by the insanity of her sentence on earth, overtaken by the departure of those she once lived for. The soft sheets offer no comfort, and there she weeps in disdain of the world.  From one cloud to another, thunder rolls inside her empty head and the husk left behind by the many who broke her heart. She feels like a Messiah who died for nothing, the savior who was torn apart for a people that turned their faces away from him in his last breath, in the last throes of a vain death. She remembers, bless her, she does, the demons of her past. Maybe she still is the nightmare that lurks deep in the evening sun. Maybe she still is the confusion in the order all around her. Maybe she is the chaos in the peace. Maybe she is the slave to the freedom all around. There is nothing in the past and there is nothing in the present. The only life is that outside her glass house. God has not
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Eurielle

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A dystopic image of the world post-disaster courtesy of Mr FijiWiji When heavens came calling, she left me drowning inside the depth of her wandering eyes. And like my last hope, I have been clinging to the end, to the beginning of the end, my end. The beauty with bewitching eyes once waltzed into my sight and held me in a trance that I have never been able to extricate myself from. I know that it is poison, that she is poison, but I cannot rid myself of her. It is almost as if she has me by a rope that she can tug as I float in space, between sanity and insanity, between the end and the beginning. All she has to do is tug and stop my free fall but she keeps extending the ropes. Eurielle, Eurielle! I weep, but the echo of my voice mocks back from the darkness. This is not a play. This is not the stage. This is the end. The sky is falling to pieces around me. I have lived a lie. I have loved a lie. Looking up from my drug-induced craze, I meet soft blue eyes that
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Land of the Broken

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A man of no country and no home, life is spent on the road, searching for the lost among the lost, keeping an eye out for the crowd whose cheers only echo in my mind, in the collective insanity. The provocations in my mind remind me of days when I wanted to walk out of life, out of the madness. Maybe it is time to reconcile with my demons and make love to the insanity in my bed. My life is a ranch of feral animals, where rats and snakes run wild and untamed, where weeds grow long and uncultivated. These lonely roads are for those of us who lost the war to life and to death. Mine is a hill of broken dreams and broken promises, of hunger and thirst, a loveless path littered with bones from the days when I could afford memories. A desert mirage Today, I dream of ropes and nooses, of days long by, of gallows, of the hangman, dreams of anger, with the rainbows in my aura turning to dust. In this land of the broken where I forage, there is no room for glee, no room for hope
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The Ever Winding Road

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Photo Courtesy Man's biggest enemy is his heart, they told me, but I did not listen, for I believed that I did know better. Somehow, my heart has been my greatest companion. My life, having been one climb of loneliness after another, a long road that has no start and no end, it has been my heart that has kept me sane. It has poked me in the eye when I looked away and seared me with guilt when I tried to veer off the anointed path. It has been my greatest source of comfort, its whip masking the pain that comes from inside, its voice scorching me more than the sun in the desert. It has provided me with a pain that has blinded the pain in my foot from walking on thorns and standing on broken and jagged edges of the cliff. If not for my heart then maybe I would have remembered the journey, but its yells were always above the songs of the birds, and the admonishes of the wild coyotes. It has blinded my eyes from the rare flowers jutting against the sterility of my path
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He Loveth, Lost

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Hurt doth not lurk far, for I can see it waiting in the narrow distance, waiting for the sun to sink, waiting for me to close my eyes. Am I in love, or in pain? Am I running after what I want or am I running away from it? My heart has become dusty and empty due to disuse. I do not know if I am going to gather my stand ever again. Those I loved are the ones I lost. Those I wanted to keep are the ones I have let go of.  Maybe I should have thought about the price I was set to pay, but the minutes and hours slipped by me like water in a sieve. My defenses were low when she attacked, and she claimed me in all my being. I was never meant for love, and love was never meant for me. We met on the hill, one going up and another going down, so I turned and walked backward with her. We were but two strangers who met, one with desire and need, and another with much to give.  When we consummated our union, we became one with the curse, the hex that assails, that leaves one high an
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