Tracing back…
that is what I am doing now,
just tracing back
along this woodland path,
in an attempt to grasp remnants
of a time
when I felt so alive, yet dying.

Thoughts and memories,
they fall  like these leaves,
a melange of confusion, beauty and frailty

Swept away by the wind, scattered
or swept into a pile, unified.

Either way, they can be stomped on,
brittle leaves crushed into a satisfying crunch.

All around me,
there’s a profusion of vermilion, gold and copper
but those reds have always been my favorite—
so alive, yet can also mean bleeding.

I see a pumpkin carved out,
a creepy smile adorning its face
A chuckle escapes from my lips,
remembering that time
when laughter lived in harmony
with love.

Now, I am not sure anymore…
Because how can something
that had so much hope, so verdant,
change?

I am a fool, for the answers
are so obvious—
I only need to look at these leaves.

So much like our lives, these seasons…

Not very long,
I will be staring up at argentine skies.

The thought of it gives me chills—
I pray for spring.

when he took words from me and stole my voice
i had given up the notion of having any choice

my life became a muted scene
i lived each day in a nightmarish dream

when he stole my words from me

reaching down into my throat
he pulled them, one by one by force

my words lay in a puddle on the floor

i left them there, not knowing how to get them back
one day he simply swept them away, they tumbled into a dark crack

now that he is gone, i've pulled them out, washed them off.
i arrange them on a page. but some words, i've noticed, have gone missing.

i wonder did they blow away in the wind? never to be found again?
or are they broken in the dust, waiting for me to find them,
to mend them with my hand

or perhaps they are smashed beyond repair,
and i will have to live my life as such
never being able to say all that i feel,
unable to find the words that can mean so much


--bruised orange

A generation of watching movies,
                      of standing still
                          studying film.
Staring still images into dust,
              appreciating what they could have seen
                  themselves.
What class of people
          are those who would sit,
                 couch-stricken?
Suddenly they are risen - - socially-
                  Because they think.
A generation of praising emotions
        over hard work
                          and sweat.
         Why do we not value
                   the lifestyle
              of the living stone?