he sits, patient and waiting
under a copse of diseased trees

but when the first bands of light
pierces through the trees' protective canopy

he will fade away
with the stars and their waning light

we are all just infinitesimal souls
stagnant; utterly still
in a plane of
nothingness and everythingness
and like Newton's First Law of Motion states
we will only continue
unmoving
yet
all we need is an unbalanced force
strong and relentless as gravity
that'll send us careening
back into our own bodies
we're all waiting for
someone, something
to bring us back home

this imbalance
is the very force that keeps the blood
thrumming in our veins
and roaring in our ears,
allows for jolts of electricity
to run down our spine and spark
at the pads of our fingers; we are
the brilliance of dying stars,
contained and bound to a mortal vessel

our hearts are pulsing, pulsing
erratically
to the rhythm of the songs that stars sing
and i hear the music resonating,
bone-vibrating and teeth-chattering,
and when we can all hum the melody
that the universe plays,
sear it and engrave it into our minds,
seven billion hearts
will (finally) beat as one

we are
caged beasts

we are
supernovas in the making
(wherein we can only burn bright and then brighter
until one day
we will return to the stars)


but at the very least, now,

we are
*alive

He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.