"May These Words"

May these words in ink
live longer than those in breath
and endure the repeated age
where hypocrisy preaches
at the public podium,
shaking hands with Dishonesty
who covers the news.

May these observations on pages
paint brighter than hesitant eyes that fade
and illustrate the wrathful ghosts
that whisper false truths
on rain-coated sidewalks,
following Rage's footsteps
who vehemently scorns at children.

May these impressions on paper
dig deeper than those in spiteful hearts
and teach the patient students
who intently and diligently listen
within the congested parade's protest,
that screams for their master's attention
in exchange for their human rights.

May these humble reminders
be retained more often than my memoir
which reads euphoric epiphanies
commonly received as the norm,
learned from anonymous sources,
shared collectively by avid readers
who seek comfort in the man-made future.

May you forget my name, but quote my legacy
more as common sense than new ideas
for a poet's crumbled, graphite-soaked papers
change less than the actions of people
who march together, who sing together,
who work together, who smile together---
the singular entity worthy of remembrance.

In a universe of acquaintances,
My eyes happen to meet yours,
A smile forms from your frown,
As for a moment we recognize.
I watch you raise your hand
Like an alien lifting an extension,
Making a motion for friendship.
I follow your moments,
Afraid of breaking the norms
Set in place by confusing creatures,
Colliding two palms together:
Rough and brief.
Yet between the empty crevices
On our palms, wind blows through
Easily without obstacle.
So close, yet so distant,
And with that action, apparently
We are friends...
But I don't know you,
You don't know me.
We just share our obscure gestures,
Turn around, walk away,
Fulfilling a temporary satisfaction
That we are not alone.
I imagine this ritual strange
In the eyes of aliens,
Watching from a distance
Not as far as the space
Between our palms.

I stay wary
of the winds and rain
which may sully my shoes.
I am not a creator of weather,
thus unavoidable, I walk forward.
Yet, the passing storm
is not responsible
for tying my laces,
that if I were to stumble,
trip and fall into agony,
it will be of my own doing.

Creativity flows
like ink from a hose,
stubbornly unbound,
which claims
precious photographs
cut from one piece.
And I pull the preferred,
personal planes,
folding them,
twisting them,
building them
into paper frogs,
before burning them
in precise order
to inhale their scent.

Each year when time
changes forward,
I intentionally forget
to switch the old,
reliable clock,
finding comfort each morning
when reading its deceptive hands
to appreciate that
there is always
an extra hour left
to live,
to sleep,
to experience.