What do these matter?
At the park,
There is an empty seat,
Where an ant pass food
To its kind.
An old tire lies
On an old rooftop–
Sometimes, a street kid
Smiles, playing with such.
The Stonehenge and
The Aurora Borealis.
The works of Pablo Neruda.
The Mona Lisa.
The Banawe Rice Terraces
And our being one,
Together. A kiss.
Our kiss.

Poems. Music. Epics. Wind.
Your yellow-painted fingernails.
The blue colors of this country.
The red arrow that bursts
Forth into kisses that drip
All over me. And just to
Gladly die for you. To die for you.

A coherent thought about love
Will always be proven false.
All we become and have to be
Is good ignorance. All we nearly had
Are but cruel clues that ever
So entice. All we ever witnessed
Are nomadic crumbs
Small beaks pecked along
The moony way.
And all sad waters, suns
And sacrificial stars
Will always burn down
Going South. But
What do these matter?

For these,
I am loving you,
Yet, even more.

Now death
Is even more confusing.
And our friend, Time, will soon
Be against us.
So, I am Leo.
And you are Pisces.
Love weaves secrets.
And men love mysteries.*

© 2014 J.S.P.