To watch with intent but not desire, his life passed
him on as he tries to explain which one he
would take to the afterlife if there is such,
like a convergence at the tip of the horizon or a
humid evening in Pasay as pyrotechnics scrape
sky fashioned like acrobats. The breeze he needs
no longer. And then begins to disquiet the quiet
with the heavy burden of which he will then forget
when he starts to move all of a sudden in space,
capitulating afterlife again if there is such,
and if everything takes a sojourn into the bleakness, must I remind you that you are all
variations of the same absence. Remember when
you had your name carved on wood as attendance
but not for long. You have escaped, locked in the
arms of a life that you thought was yours but
still isn't, leashed under the Sun. Bodies pulse
then fluctuate but not a sign of life. Words function
more in stillbirth. Never forget, as a dandelion
hovers and puts a smile on your dreary face,
and a question in search for all available and naked
answers. Principles undermine caprice. Do not
adhere. Must I remind you that you are
someone else apart from who you think you are.
You have yourself straightened, tucked safely
like intent, not desire in all its voluminous and
vehement speeches annotating something unknown
to the behest of ourselves. If I were a house,
I am gratified by windows -- your mirage there
transfixed in a secluded spot, looking out
brimming with life as curtains oscillate as the
Earth breathes with you. If I were a house,
you would ransack everything with a sly mouth
packed with powerful narrative. How you
have done over, leaving everything undone,
moved off-tangent, under impossibly gray skies,
brindled in prayer. If I were a house,
doors slammed, speculative fabrications sleep
through evenings and mornings until no difference
is met -- you meant a word as if it had a lock
and the key, somewhere cold in the air of
sleuthing pains making me so, less than
this and more of a fractured house.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC
To watch with intent but not desire, his life passed
him on as he tries to explain which one he
would take to the afterlife if there is such,
like a convergence at the tip of the horizon or a
humid evening in Pasay as pyrotechnics scrape
sky fashioned like acrobats. The breeze he needs
no longer. And then begins to disquiet the quiet
with the heavy burden of which he will then forget
when he starts to move all of a sudden in space,
capitulating afterlife again if there is such,
and if everything takes a sojourn into the bleakness, must I remind you that you are all
variations of the same absence. Remember when
you had your name carved on wood as attendance
but not for long. You have escaped, locked in the
arms of a life that you thought was yours but
still isn't, leashed under the Sun. Bodies pulse
then fluctuate but not a sign of life. Words function
more in stillbirth. Never forget, as a dandelion
hovers and puts a smile on your dreary face,
and a question in search for all available and naked
answers. Principles undermine caprice. Do not
adhere. Must I remind you that you are
someone else apart from who you think you are.
You have yourself straightened, tucked safely
like intent, not desire in all its voluminous and
vehement speeches annotating something unknown
to the behest of ourselves. If I were a house,
I am gratified by windows -- your mirage there
transfixed in a secluded spot, looking out
brimming with life as curtains oscillate as the
Earth breathes with you. If I were a house,
you would ransack everything with a sly mouth
packed with powerful narrative. How you
have done over, leaving everything undone,
moved off-tangent, under impossibly gray skies,
brindled in prayer. If I were a house,
doors slammed, speculative fabrications sleep
through evenings and mornings until no difference
is met -- you meant a word as if it had a lock
and the key, somewhere cold in the air of
sleuthing pains making me so, less than
this and more of a fractured house.
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