The skies are flawless tonight,
Like a plum blanket with splotches of tangerine,
They stretch out across the earth;
Embracing and tucking me in.
How I wish they were your arms instead,
Wrapped around me and keeping me cozy.

I hear the chirping of the crickets
With their symphonic chorus soothing my eardrums
As they hum me to sleep.
Nothing could be a lovelier sound;
Except perhaps if I would hear
Your whisper of good night to my ear.

There goes a soft puff of air,
Caressing my face as it flows away;
Taking a little of my weariness with it.
But still, the only thing that could revive
The life that was once in my eyes
Is your kiss good night.

Now I am lying in silence and repose
Beneath the comforts of my home,
With my head wandering among the clouds;
In a lost cause of finding you in my dreams.
As I close my eyes and fall in deep slumber,
I tell the stars to bid you good night.

I am finding air,
Searching for a new atmosphere.
I think I need some time to catch my breath,
Then hold it out for the fresh breeze of hope
After exhaling the despair-blended smokes,
In order to feel alive once more.

I am finding air,
Yearning to spread out my wings
And make the sky my home.
Let me first bloom in my cocoon,
So I shall come out rainbow-stained
And the *** of gold will soon show itself to me.

I am finding air,
Allowing the current to sweep me off my feet.
Not looking down,
Despite of hanging by a thread;
Not planning to land yet,
No matter how hot or cold it gets.

I am finding air,
Shading with clarity these shadows dulling my presence
As the blinding haze thickens,
While the heavy downfall pours to wash me away
And darkness shames me to fade away.
Until I taste the sun, you couldn't keep me in any lair.

I am finding air,
Following the blow of the wind,
To look up to a different horizon,
To chase after my lucky star,
To reach for the moon hiding behind the clouds,
And have the whole universe in the palm of my hand.

I am finding air,
Now peaking the crown of paradise,
Embracing a full heaven,
Back to where I started;
Walking on air,
Inspiring another endless quest.

With mechanical portals known to be doors
That either lead to different worlds or take you home,
These cabled vehicles like tunnels on wheels fastened on a railroad track
Stretch to both ends of the universe under a single route.
And as you get in for closure,
You put your trust on the obscure.

Just say the magic words;
It will take you anywhere you wish to be.
Even though magic always comes with a prize,
The only cost are countable units of your time
And also a few dimes,
In return for the travel of your life.

Across the carpeted walkway of reaching out,
Through the glass windows of visible silver lining,
Behind the blank and arid faces that lure the soul to sink in deep wonder,
The lights and skyscrapers, and mist silhouetting the scenery,
All appear in bokeh, all blend in your eyes;
Your eyes that glow brighter than fire on ice.

The coldness lashing perennially on your skin
And shaking your bones to its final breakage,
Couldn't beat the absolute zero amity between these strangers.
But your fascination has enough radiation
To melt the tip of the iceberg
And shine over what's behind their opaque walls.

Settled on the plastic seats that serve as time machines,
They nestle between unfamiliar bodies;
Static, in a state of inertia.
Blocking out force, resisting change;
Like cars stuck on parking mode,
Couldn't bring themselves to unload.

Grasping on loose handles
With a grip more secure than seat-belts,
Some tend to pull away despite of the constant push.
Like engines on reverse, they take time to backtrack.
For all we know, for every action,
Is an equal and opposite reaction.

The brakes hit; there goes a screeching sound.
But when it comes to a break, we don't really hang back
Or fall to a complete stop;
We only slide forward.
For we must keep moving ahead,
In order to keep our balance.

The portals once again unlock to let you out to the open galaxy
And let in another for the same adventure.
You've reached the end of the trip,
But not the end of the road; nor the destination.
For the journey is infinite; you know you are going to ride again and again,
Until you've run out of wishes of where you want to be where.

Every steady stroke of lead staining the spotless paper,
Takes shape into a vivid sketch of her blueprinted future.
It was her hand that steered the pencil up to the final detail,
But it was the tenacity in her being that polished off the masterpiece.
The draft was no evidence of a foreseen tomorrow;
Rather, a subtle illustration of what can bring that vision forward.
It was but a portrait of herself;
Her hair ablaze in burnt sienna with tinges of orange,
Every strand of it splashed with colors of burning hope.
Her eyes, as brown as they are,
Traced with fine ebony lines of boldness,
In them is where wild reveries come to life.
She is the outline, she is the plan.
She is enough to be an artwork of her own.
She is the pattern, she is the design.
She is the finishing touch to her own creation.

Mild and right,
Just between 212 and 32 degrees Fahrenheit.
With temperate steam,
Giving off a little gleam.
Won't have you scalded,
Won't ever turn frigid.
Won't let you sink,
Will buoy you up when you're on the brink.
Although lukewarm,
Still the farthest thing from numb.
Never half-hearted;
Always spirited.
And I hope as you flow,
Your uniqueness, you won't forget to show.

It is for the reason we think and think and think,
That the finishing line seems to shrink and shrink and shrink.
Their trophies and our consolation prizes, we always link
To the faces of where it matters not if we stink.

We ***** and *****, but never look;
Only offer our eyes to reference books,
Pay our lives to learn how they sit and smile and dress and cook,
When we could carve out crafts of our own on hippocampus walls to hook.

Charts and charts of sound waves go farther than needed into the ear,
But in this statistic, there are more of those which we are deaf to hear.
Then we wonder, perhaps they will listen if we talk our fear through beer.
What we cannot, we must preach, so in the morning it’ll all be clear.

Putting on several mouths, sincerity seldomly salivates in our tongues.
And all we ever scream about, we let clump and clog in our lungs.
Our voices, we swallow, then verbalize universal dung.
Is that easier than to allow our singularity be hung?

To possess such delicate bones under thick coats of flesh and skin,
One little sting, we crumble as if our framework isn't as fortified as tin.
But sometimes when too stung, we rigidify and our cutis turns lean.
Our pores, too open, that even what doesn't exist, we welcome in.

And so, we stick to our lifelong work of homemade bibles,
And add commandments every time we build stables,
Along with valuables from the places in people’s fables.
Only us can decide to make room for new tables.