Your reluctance to bark, your canine ogling. How I envy you dog. Because you are innocent.
Because you dawdle in your
coil of tonal mane.
Because you weep no deaths.
Because you somersault no beginnings.
Because you do not heed the call of silence — just stupidly beautiful curiosity you cannot word, a scruff grunt or a maniacal burst of motion. Because you only
find yourself in a sex-lock
and drowse right after.
Because there is nothing in this
world too immense for your
smallness. Tottering behind the furniture, sleeping underneath
the study, wagging your tail vehemently, welcoming with beastly pounces any stranger heralded by the wind passing
through opened doors,
because you have no daily commute,
no dread for the inevitable,
because your fruitions are measured to no better than
a toss of supplication or simply
gnawing at an old bone.
Because tomorrow
i will go to Pasay and earn a living
for perhaps, nothing— my works remain unread, my voice
still dies in its reticence, if not clubbed state.
Because tomorrow there
will be a long line of people running
in circles on the head of the
nail and soon it will rain.
Because you and I share
the same air yet never
carry the same iron of crosses
or surmounts of ineffable
boulders — i feel more chained
without a leash while you
feast in the manna of hours,
chasing a speck of shadow
or lounging at every time-trickle.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Your reluctance to bark, your canine ogling. How I envy you dog. Because you are innocent.
Because you dawdle in your
coil of tonal mane.
Because you weep no deaths.
Because you somersault no beginnings.
Because you do not heed the call of silence — just stupidly beautiful curiosity you cannot word, a scruff grunt or a maniacal burst of motion. Because you only
find yourself in a sex-lock
and drowse right after.
Because there is nothing in this
world too immense for your
smallness. Tottering behind the furniture, sleeping underneath
the study, wagging your tail vehemently, welcoming with beastly pounces any stranger heralded by the wind passing
through opened doors,
because you have no daily commute,
no dread for the inevitable,
because your fruitions are measured to no better than
a toss of supplication or simply
gnawing at an old bone.
Because tomorrow
i will go to Pasay and earn a living
for perhaps, nothing— my works remain unread, my voice
still dies in its reticence, if not clubbed state.
Because tomorrow there
will be a long line of people running
in circles on the head of the
nail and soon it will rain.
Because you and I share
the same air yet never
carry the same iron of crosses
or surmounts of ineffable
boulders — i feel more chained
without a leash while you
feast in the manna of hours,
chasing a speck of shadow
or lounging at every time-trickle.
Request permission to use this poem