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raen Jun 2022
old bayonet--
I wonder if one touched
my grandfather's body
ika-12 ng Hunyo, 2017
raen May 2022
My hands are cold, too cold
the wind burning my nose,
as it pushes me across the road,
hitting me with the reality
that I'm not there where the sun is

Numbers jump out at me
Splashing my face
with their significance

Buses meeting trains and hotel rooms never did leave, did you?

It was I who left.

Hours, numbers
Days, years
A decade and 3 years
and this is the first
but hopefully the last

Magnified void that clenches me

I get lost most times
but those numbers again,
Always coming up to remind me...

reflective tears
as the clock ticks past
to the past

and I am left with my hands
on my face and the clock's face

Trembling fingers touching keys

Chilled by so many reasons--
Emptied by the sighing seasons

I remind myself to smile,
amidst these blurry letters

Your laughter
resonating in my heart

Never leaving me
raen Apr 2022
Dotted brush strokes
fill the air,
arresting me

All I do is stare,
yearning to be
on higher ground
Yet all I have is concrete

I walk to where
grass meets the worm
and look up at the s.weeping sky
delicate golden light facing me

The variegated rose catches my eye,
Yet escapes my lenses...
capturing mulberries instead
Mosquitoes feed upon me
and I let them

"Revel in this", my soul says
"It's been too long since you last
saved moments for your spirit."

It is good to just be
like the mullberry

To darken as it ripens,
to fall,
possibly leaving stains
Yet can also feed the earth,
to grow...
then reach upwards
to touch
those brush-stroked clouds.
raen Sep 2016
close my eyes
think of myself
being there

to where
are free to roam,
then bounce back,
immune to tortured souls

allowed to spread
in       wa     e
                 v     s

for some reason,
Ararat comes to mind
right now
but to be honest,
Arayat would suffice


                   all these rocks

disturb you?

Even just this once...

let me
let out

sanctioned screaming,
and release it to these mountains.
it's been a while, thank you John Stevens.
raen Feb 2015
The angels, with their folded wings
walk on silent ground

They know not whether
to weep,
or wield their sighing harps.

It seems like hearts are stones,
or jewels would they be?

Precious gems, maybe.

Of different hues,
with scattered light.

Encrusted, unpolished
by time and tears,
by things spoken and not. ...

The angels, moving forward--
with their timid halos
and shorn heads-
their soles
touching sacred ground.
Disyembre, 2013
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