men of endurance
will often take the back seat -
they’re driven by poise.

i wait for daybreak —
shed embers of disquiet;
my spirit rages.

driven by madness,
the man crushed the little bird -
then heaved a grave tune.

always offered help,
never realizing that
i needed it most.

patiently, i wait -
my legs crossed,
and my heart too.
much time has passed
since the inevitable happened,
and yet, the light of a clement morn
never fails to justify the agony
of dying stars in the night sky;
or the ones too dead for even the
darkness that consumed them.
the heavens dispatch their
messenger birds to nook the
wisdom into the branches
of trees whose roots have shrewd
under the weight of logs that
outline their ascent.
such trees call upon the sages
to enlighten them,
and to warn them -
for they know too well how the
message might confound in the grips
of those who practise hedonism.
perhaps, the light has always been
too blinding for mortal eyes.

the flowers bloom all the same;
the winds usher the fragrant truth -
slowly, but surely;
and i lie in hope for the
rancid thoughts to inevitably
take on new meanings…

patiently.

my grudges relish
the taste of isolation;
bitter by the day.

perilous forests
lay bare: sheer, dark, and sincere;
so many secrets.