I once saw a deer passing by
its eyes intriguing and delicate —
he was walking unhurriedly while the lights
behind him swerve and dance pokily
while I gather my hands to touch him,
he turns around and ran away.

I once saw a shadow passing by
its being brought chills to my bones —
he was walking behind me, unhurried
while there was no light dancing around us
even the winds stopped breathing;
until I remember, he was me.

I once saw a man passing by
its presence gave me comfort and light
he was running away —
I asked him, “Where are you going?”
He answered, “To the future,”
I smiled and turned to him, “Let's go,”
He held my hands and we both ran together.

I once saw a mirror echoing back at my voice
its existence drove my mind and broke
into tiny pieces — while I go bewildered and
do not know what to do, he laughs and shatters
into fragile broken pieces,
he cries out and I ran away.

I saw the deer passing by
its eyes gentle and noble —
he steps and steps,
until he was facing me
behind him was the lights that stopped dancing
and the wind hustled a great bone-chilling harsh cold,
“You can remember now?”

He asked, “Yes,”
I told him and ran away
to the future, I come and all the shadows and mirrors broke and moaned a great pain.

I remember him now.

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 gasp 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 on following her,
telling her to confess a sin
she hid so well, of buried and of a song
she wants to sing.

These ghosts keep on following her
in the city lights, they show their faces
and hid their remorse,
for she will be one of them soon
if she will 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
of whom she loves, once was 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.

I feel like if I were to pick out life choices,
it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

Beside me stood a young oak.
Although I'm looking at him,
he swirled his branches
and his body cracked
to encourage me to enjoy the leaves falling
that would drop out —
on the midday of October.

I picked the book,
thoroughly flipping the pages
while I lick my lips
tuck my hair out,
peered on the white sandy sky.
Lit up the spark in my heaving chest
in beneath those pages.

I wonder, though,
is life all inside the book?
While I flip through the portal,
why do I keep on walking
the same road
if an anonymous poet
wrote in his book
that a man shall not follow
one's path?
But their beliefs and energy
that goes beyond
and falls in deep?

Then a dead crow suddenly
rocked its way through me
while its side bitten and decaying,
the distinction I have with its life,
brought me back to these pages —
and words scrambled
alive and beautiful.

I feel like if I were to pick out life choices,
it would be me, as the little bookish girl.

On midday of October, once, there was a girl. Her hair swayed and leaves rushed to get her attention, the little bookish girl was alive again for a while.

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.