With heavy breaths and lonely hiccups
empty cups
and busy filled streets
of few steps walking
not minding the world's sharp eyes.

Sometimes,
with a free bargain in one's shoulder
to carry on with the clouds and the sunny day while
the sun smiles at you.

Sometimes,
it is with the rain that gives a heavy sack filled with empty bargains, once,
at the vile winter
while spring day comes for a long time.

Sometimes,
it is without a sound
that one's self creates a melody and a song
exposed to the world's naked eyes
and it is with the heavy breaths that you can continue,
sometimes.

When time passes and the strings
of her branches
harden from its spot —
life continues to go on.
Even when the music stops playing,
time never quit its soliciting
bids for tragic goodbyes.

The blue oak tree stood tall
while her leaves falling out in Autumn
and a forlorn hymn plays around her —
time is crucial and the world a rhetorical
place of wisdom and grief.

She stood there everyday
in stories and legends —
her body an art of desecration
with letters carved unsent,
she stood there, still.

The blue oak tree
danced on the mist of the sky —
the clouds swished its billowy mass
“life continues to go on”
it passes, with certain reasons
and uncertain excuses;
the blue oak tree
keep dancing in stillness.

The song stopped and
she stood there,
hardened her branches
while her leaves keep falling out
in Autumn,
and the wind in stillness —
there, she stood in years,
without a song, without a trail of dance,
without a life.

The blue oak tree died
while her body is used as an art of unsent letters.

Stolen stares as she passed by
the city lights and countless hues of
shadows departing by the cars slowing down
and fast — she can recognize and sense their beings.

Though there was some music playing back and forth,
she can still hear the gasps and woes of these
shadows passing by the cars slowing down
and fast — ghosts of the buried.

The road is brisk and dismissive with the vivid pigments
of the city lights and the moon following every pace; even then, the shadows keep following her,
telling her to confess a sin
she hid so well, of buried things and a song
she wants to sing.

These ghosts keep following her
in the city lights, they show their faces
and hide their remorse,
for she will be one of them soon
if she does not sing
her favorite song now.

She took out her notebook and penned
a note — of a deadly sin she must confess
to an angel and let it fly across his way,
for she must live in freedom soon
and sing her favorite song.

In the same city lights,
there sat the man
whom she loves, once a ghost of the past
of buried regret and woes.
Maybe then, if he
composed his song, 'tis then he will be free.

In the city of lost forbidden lights, there are two ghosts
passing by the cars slowing down and fast —
blind senses and dying requests to angels,
for maybe then, they will be free from the burial
of the dead.

Dear Courtney,

My dress was soaked by the slippery wet road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on train 25, and the bay is bluer than usual. The clock strikes 12 in the afternoon. The sky is breathtakingly painted on the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

I sit here, while I cannot take my eyes off the greens. It is the first time in a while, but it has always been nostalgic with you here. The trees stand there, and the train moves at its monotonous pace. This time, I am thanking this train for its urgency. Maybe it wants us to see each other again. Just you wait, Courtney. Tomorrow, we will see each other again.

It's dawn, and the morning breakfast is here in front of me. It is a complete set. Just like what you like. Tea, toasted bread, egg, and tomato. Ah, I thought I saw you sleeping here beside me. Am I doing it again? Wait for me, dear friend, for I will see you now.

There the trees and the mountain face me. The scenery is telling me a story. A memory of you and me. Ah, dear friend, it is almost evening. I hope you're thinking of your friend here while you're taking a sip of your wine.

The train has stopped, and I am here now, Courtney. I hope this letter reaches you, dear friend.

"She's really a writer, huh?" The nurse said while she read me Cordelia's letter. I nodded and smiled.

"How was she?" I asked. The lump in my throat was so heavy that I could not breathe.

"She's resting peacefully in the bay of Mayhem, Courtney." The nurse then held my hand.

"Do you think she's happy?" I asked her.

"Hon, her eyes will give you life. Of course, she is." She kissed me on the forehead and pushed my wheelchair.

"You will have life again, Courtney. I will see you after the operation."

My dress was soaked by the slippery wet road in Mayhem. I thought I was parading with the other women here. Yet, I escaped this hell of a home. I cannot wait to see you again. I am on train 25, and the bay is bluer than usual. The clock strikes 12 in the afternoon. The sky is breathtakingly painted on the canvas with the clouds' fur orbiting each other.

"Thank you for your eyes," I whispered, and tears began to well up. The wind hustled, and the trees hurried to drop their leaves.

I took out my notebook and pen. I wrote how the scenery by the bay gave me comfort.

Cordelia, I hope this letter reaches you.

There the moon gliding its light to guide her slipping away — and the shadows in the tree stalked her soulless grumbling footsteps.

Cricket's music calmed her heart. The immense outcry of the branches woke the parallel of the Dead Tree amid the black forest. Even the wilderness turned cold when she steps afoot. Her sight gone and her heart is pretentious to the music of the lonely shadows. “Come here, dear, for you must set yourself free.”

It was from the parallel — the ones whom the living bodies buried and forgotten. The sandcastle was falling away. The shadows almost struck her red knitted dress and begging her to come. But she was finding her way — a princess lost in the deep. To fall away, to be shot by a bullet straight into her heart. To be gone, and to sing her last breath.

She murmurs to the shadows in the tree, even when she could not make out her way, she steps, and steps. Until she fell into the deep hole and woke up, she was in a coffin. The loud cries of the people surrounding her — while she was being buried alive. She sang her last breath, then, the shadows beneath her held her body.

Until they were in the sandcastle. The ones that fall away in endless sorrow and death. Maybe then, she belongs as a soulless spirit to never be content in the living dead.

There the moon gliding its light to guide her slipping away — and the shadows in the tree stalked her soulless grumbling footsteps.

I.
When I was born,
I was dead
In her womb I was bloodless.
It was Saturday,
and the moon is full.

II.
Summer nights
became a desert
the child in me
was a gatekeeper.
All that was left,
'til now I was dead.

III.
I grew apart
and my heart has swollen
'tis now I found I was fallen
oh, my heart bleeds for me
when will I not be forsaken?

IV.
Hymn.
It was tingling
the music of a bell
is my time here short?
The child in me grew apart.
All that was left,
gone by a swift of a wind.

V.
Tomorrow might be
the last breath I breathe
'til now I was dead
in the hearse I am alive.

By the striking of the moon, gone of me was the child in her womb.

My feet wandered into
the serene shoreline
while the strong waves
hushed my cacophonic mind —
I strummed my fingers and gripped
tightly of my conch.
While my lips brushed around
its spiral shell — as I whispered my wishes
and blow through,
suddenly an angel
flew by and swiveled —
his wings burning.

From the heavens, he falls
right through the deserted sea.
My naked feet began to push
its life towards him —
he lies on the sand and his wings burning through.
Silhouettes of him rang on my mind;
gashes of water fell
through my eyes —
and whilst even the silence
grieved for us.
His burning wings calmed the strong winds —
the winter sea began to calm its strident waves
as I let myself lie awake beside him.

I closed my eyes and the replicas
of myself flashed through like a
candescent wind —
and there I saw a woman
lying in the hospital bed.
The sun mirroring the artificial light
through the windowpane;
the man standing beside her
had his wings folded —
and his eyes cold as the winter
and the woman dying in her
tranquil sleep.

The trees had fallen its last leaves,
and the winter is coming at dawn.
The man covered my eyes and I was at the
winter sea again —
“Mona, you will die in winter.”

And I woke up.
It was September.