Only the pale smoke rests
dense in the air,
no sign of the night
that heard screams of despair

charred wood carries
memories of the struggle
when embers flew,
hot and glowing,
and fire burnt anew.

the silence falls like rain now,
heavy and cold,
erasing stories,
erasing tales
of what happened
the night before.

they're beginning to itch
these new clothes that I've donned
making me seem normal,
as one of them,
the paint on my face
no longer forlorn

I can feel it writhe and move
inside my head,
hiss in displeasure
wanting out,
wanting to spread
it is done with its leisure

the monster I carry
that green eyed devil
its been waiting to long to strike
and ooze will my blood
dark, clotted bile
and with it I'll purge
all these lies.

No, I'm not afraid,
I was just confused,
while waiting,
that I could be one of them
I am never, I will never be
I reside only in the sidelines
with a butcher knife to parry.

Unprecedented

unlike the storm which rages
or the volcano that shudders
before its release,
or the tsunami that warns
like the tornado which
tumults everything about

wild fire is unprecedented
a strike of a match
a careless fuse
an unwarranted gust of wind
spreads a wave so large
it consumes all,
and kills everything.

wild fire, I have inside.

enough
with the paltry sum returned
to all the pleading I did
with a bowl in my hand
I walked;
shiny eyes watching,
seeking, craving,
while they all walked past,
without a glance;
some with pity in their eyes.

enough,
with the clanging church bells
beckoning those who fell
arousing feeling of hope,
silly girls throwing away coins
in wishing wells.

enough,
of waving my hand around,
decorated to appeal,
these cobbled streets
I called home
will never my shadow feel

enough
of this disappointment
making way through my body
that hollowness,
that shallow hurt
of knowing
somethings aren't meant to be.

enough.

Dying embers of a blazing sun
shielding the sky
even in its last moments,
such purpose is what I seek
when I am shred,
scattered from west to east.

Bow in elegance when waves trash,
accept a fate that sand castles don't last
find my hold in a universe so grand,
know that even stars are made
with a plan.

In the pink waters of a complacent sea,
I watch silhouettes
and the lessons they carry,
looking to horizons,
to find faith like the blind
to know after a sunset
one waits for the sunrise.

I asked the lady by the door,
peeping in see the room,
"Do you know where I sit?"
She smiled and said,
"Your  card is placed!"

"That's the problem!" I cried,
I seem to have forgotten my name.

"What am I called inside the room?
Is it the same when I'm out, or at home?
Do I have only one name,
or can I have more,
like, go by four?"

There was noise in the room,
a constant wave of a murmur,
and I stood there, alone and scared
trying so hard to remember

I lost my name outside the room
I lost my table, my people, my place

I stood outside the room for a while,
then silently walked away.

Like the molten embers
of a dying fire,
the last crumbs of a meal,
we give ourselves
in appreciation of  a lie;
the cold and hungry.

For the makers don't always
choose wisely,
and the survivors lose patience
to keep seeing beyond horizons
and find only the salty grace
of the waves,
building sand castles gets tiring
when all that is  written
gets swept away.

The comfort is dwindling
that of a candle in the storm,
wavering,  unsteady,
unlike the ashes which consume,
then linger,
a potent reminder
that even hope dies,
even restraint ends.

Sometimes it is the delusion
of a happy ending
that keeps us alive.