ON TOMORROW

 

Hope Loops

 

Splashing vivaciously
A mass of summer ends drenched in a shallow creek.
Flailing aimlessly,
A person begins in showing that they can speak
When dreams touch and eyes become one.
Now, hail our starry flag worthy to seek,
Reflecting shimmers of a night that is none
Other than the one unique.

Merging in acknowledgement,
The body grows cold in a moment shaped by everything that came before,
Remembering the past’s scent,
Shedding the guilt of its lore,
Wayward; lament of a saint’s vision and all that he bore.

Blossoming in spring,
A veil of glass clouds disintegrates into a soft stare.
Of temperence we sing,
Using these voices we thought may not be there.
A sense of warmth remains in our stead,
When we grace another’s shadow,
Dare engulf in those sentiments; the kind to spread
Through slow fire, over clear meadow.

 
 
 
 
 

Backyard Ocean

 

Why is it that pain facillitates all other senses
And amplifies them, much as
The infinite iterations of Doppler’s phenomenon
Bring the sound of an urban ocean
To my windswept ears
And these changing fears
Clothed in dim-lit warmth
By the grip of a cerulean current
Dragging me to greather heights
At the bottom of this new beginning
Deep inside our backyard ocean
Where glories of the city now reside and loudly,
To my windswept ears,
Scream of athletic tears,
Hurl their wiry arms around me
In an effort not to dissipate
With the years,
Giving way to buoyancy
Closing off the shores of their reality?

 
 
 
 
 

Jupiter

 

Up these stairs of guilt

The crab-faced lion ascends

With a goat’s gait

Jumping over shadows,

Lo! In conquest of poise

 
 
 
 
 

Diary

 

In Spring I adorn.
Many things due to come.
Find joy – such I have sworn.
A bud of the plum.

Endless it is no more;
Insects’ cry to the stars.
To drift was Summer’s core.
The rain will leave scars.

My floors are twisting.
There’s banging on the wall.
It’s three in the morning.
Some ghost came in Fall…

I sit on the bed.
Winter’s cold is a lake.
Snow sinks down to my head.
Through silence I wake.

 
 
 
 
 

Incendium

 

Always shall

Half a heart in ideals

Thine be, hopeless!

For rebellion is still

A hero’s privilege

 
 
 
 
 

Swell

 

Mimicking bubbles,

Cast-off sentiments set

Afloat heart’s sorrow,

Surface to modernité,

And burst into desire

 
 
 
 
 

The Actor

 

the actor — ever to withhold true hues,

akin still streams beneath a land of blues,

when, over seas of red, this walking cloud

raises courage; becoming someone’s muse

 
 
 
 
 

Seasons

 

sun after storm, playing tag

I cower, but why feel shame?

lit puddles, always disturbed,

reflect change — again, again

 
 

Advertisements