Short is the way


How do you measure the distance
between two hearts?
Is it time apart or silence’ depth,
The count of arguments,
The weight of doubts.

And the when
Is it not the very question itself
That marks the beginning
of yet another end.

 

 

 

 

Prompt: Measure

Live Life My Dearest


Which sea will contain my sorrow?
How strong a thunder will punctuate my grief?
Could the wind’s howl compare
to this helpless heart’s cry?
Empty Nightmare has become reality
For life as that which I have lived has ceased.

But the road before me is not untrodden.
Silver streaks faintly glimmer declaring hope.
These falling dewdrops form threads that lead to the morrow.

Fearfulness breaks way for courage.
As specters from the Shadow emerge
reflecting my own woes
We reach out our hands and grasp the intangible.

Our lives have not ended.
Changed, transmutated, morphed indeed.
But life remains to be lived.
Now with gusto and zest,
The new pages await my chronicles.

Days of Blur


If one’s world are all the eyes could see,
then mine is an arm’s circle.
But this closed space is everything I need –
a singular station rooted
within bounds of stone.

Brick by brick I have built the walls called distance;
burned each bridge that were once silver and gold.
The empty moon hide thorn-laden grass.
A moat of silence keep the phantom siege at bay.

This castle of one is my own peace.

Life’s companion named Death


Hindrik S / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

     Every so often I’d dream about being in an unfamiliar cemetery – like the cemetery invites me as a forgotten friend. There is one grave that I keep seeing each time and it always has such freshly cut lavender. The marriage of the lavender and the grave was so natural it was as if the grave birthed its own symbol of a fruitful and purposeful life lived. Continue reading

The Reaper’s Eye


Imagine for a moment that you are walking within the high school you attended in your younger years. Think of the halls and the classrooms, the cafeteria and the flag pole, the assembly hall and the basketball court. Think about all these things that have been imprinted on your mind by the years you stayed there. However you managed then, whether you thrived or simply survived, everyone remembers their second home that is their high school.

Then maintain the image against an incoming storm of incomparable magnitude ravaging the empty and evacuated school. Furious clashing winds and forceful rain batter the walls, break the windows and the doors letting the elements invade everywhere leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. After a while, the longest hours from your stretched and panicked perception, the giant storm moves on as it gains even more speed. How would you feel if this actually happened to your alma mater? Continue reading

Through the looking glass(es)


subsetsum / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

    I always imagine that I was born with glasses on. That’s a weird  musing since I’ve only been prescribed them when I was ten years old: mostly because someone noticed my grades have been consistently getting lower even when I did well during written exams. And every year my eyes just get worse. What started at a grade of 110 for nearsightedness has now reached 550 more than a decade later.

  I’ve never been made fun of because of my glasses though. I guess I’m just one of those faces that are meant to wear them so naturally that I just blend in. That or everyone has gotten so used to me wearing glasses day in and out to even bother making names, I could imagine how tiring teasing could get. Lucky because I was being hard on myself as it was.

Continue reading