i belong to the daybreak
when humans with sleepy eyes
and mousy morning hearts
are brave enough to face
the scarily mundane world once again.

i belong to nature
to the hidden wonders of the world
there's unknown modern hanging gardens of babylon
and the secret sanctuaries
where the teenagers of the megalopolis
go to rest.

i belong to the ocean
in the deepest trenches
no man has seen
where it is quiet and still
and darkness reigns supreme.

i belong to outer space
in the galaxies who are
strangers we'd like to know
there's dark matter that swirls
space dust coalesces
and stars are born to die all over again.

i belong to the rain
when the sky cries and
the typhoons turn to drizzle
the water runs through
empty houses and thrift stores in the gutters
and on and on, to underground,
to God knows where.

i belong to the night
to the time when the busiest people
submit to slumber
but a few who are not
bothered by lightyears
sit by their windowsills
to watch the stars.

*i belong to the world
and the world belongs to me.

he's got slits for eyes,
they wander about, in search for something
to satiate his bustling curiosity.

he's got a thirst for life,
he is attracted to painted alleyways,
he listens keenly to anyone who speaks in the hopes of gathering a story to tell.

he's constantly moving around, speaking in tongues,
his breath smells like summer, his eyelids are heavy ,
his hands are ink stained and he is desperate to create.

and i'm not one to draw or paint; but to me,
there is artistry in the swing of his hands,
there is poetry in his stride, his kindness, in his mousy speech,
there is a story in his sunlit bedroom, his drafts and scribbles,
the type of spectacle worth capturing in a photograph.

his art is merely a reflection
of the beauty contained in his being.