i listen to the dead bird sing,
as it lays footsteps for me to follow,
when the wind howls into my soul
i hear the whirring echo
a pregnant fear, a jitter of soul's trauma.
this is not a fairytale, it sings.
small drops of water that fall from the sky
you shall forget the wisp of rain
the touch of grass and
the breath of ocean air
you shall forget it's feeling.
if you keep listening to me, it says.
everything of warmth will evaporate.
and you'll be left with only my voice.
but i want to keep listening
to the dead bird's song.
because it is beautiful.
because it touches my soul.
And plants a seed of magical numbness
just enough to not feel everything else
that would be gone.
i want the prelude to end.
and the chorus to begin.

-arsonpoet

‘twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas,
Humidity can’t be seen
As the sun whirled
Its final twirl.

A flock of pigeons stand by Midnight’s Trolley Trail.

I am my own eye,
Staring at taught veils
'tween cotton gaits.

The clouds are no more,
Spirits remained encaged in rose sepultures,

A transformation so chaotic, they cackle at their false fear.

MY BLURRINESS SEEMS TO BURN
STEADY. ready,
For what to behold.

I have left Universe to relay ,
As the subtle sun one did in its day.

I am left
To react.

React to what?
React to wee?            React,
to relationships,        React,
to their degree of nobility,
So fruitful, so radical in concept indeed.


Of all these perspectives
I am one.
One paper, one tree cut for endless possibilities.

The treasure remains underneath,
Where I weep
In the deep,
In the deep.

There is nothing to find,
And that made all the difference.

'twas the Hour of The Raven,
Scolding at the Seven Seas.

i want to blame her for
the wrong permutations
of time, people and events
that rattled our wan cages
i set her soul free at night
but in the process of unison,
i hit a wall flailing myself
in a well diving deep.
falling or drowning in incense.
even i do not realise.
what is the point of this?
if we have nothing but bodies left.
hearts will beat.
but souls can die.

i ask myself
questions my soul
refuses to answer
because it is soaked
in the silence of this night.

i refrain from anger
i build my castles
with strokes of moonlight
you only see it
in the luminescence of the night.

i lay lifeless on the ground
the sky above is a cutting board
i want to stick objects in there
with tools and utensils of memory.
i have forgotten my roots
because my wings dragged my
by the brink of death.


i wish not to be found
on such nights.
because i am not thinking
but breathing in unison.
i am believing my stories
and singing my own songs.
i am on leave.
and i desire to be.

Forgive me Father for we were too blind to lead our hearts, misled by our fragile thoughts and irreconcilable differences.
Forgive me Father for the misinterpretation created in in my head by dilemma and submerged in trauma;
I was blind to trust and numb to disregard  our own fresh wounds rubbed in salts in guise of words.
W o r d s
Cuts like a knife, straight to the heart and insidious
Like an uninvited guest, it stays till you're completely exhausted.
Drowned myself in vulnerability to trust the stranger
Unsure of the grave repercussion and danger.
Forgive us Father for losing ourselves in pain and game
For we were too naive to comprehend
Until we embarked on suffering till the end.

It still haunts and keeps me anxious when silence comes in the form of uninvited guests at night, invoking the sense of melancholy deeply; like a salt rubbed on a fresh wound.
Part of me still wishes to turn back the time and rewrite the story, part of me aches for TABULA RASA~ a state of blank mind.
And part of me is still reeling on the nightmares which was my reality; while I was still trying to hold a grip over my sanity.
Monster exist in humans and sometime they're insidious like cancer. They eat you slowly while you're still unaware of the symptoms that you had to compromise with. The more you compromised and adjusted, the more it gave them the chance to deteriorate your worth.
I wore a smile and wore my mask of resilience so well that silently I bore the pain, while I was dying inside, yet nobody could see it with naked eyes.
And yet, I was blamed for all the repercussions I had to deal with.
And while the monster lurks around freely, I still walk on the path courageously, with fear but I'll keep walking on, even if it means to be alone.
Freedom is a lonely road.
👣

She says she is lesbian . . .
I fix a cup of Oolong tea . . .
I just needed someone to talk to . . .
She is looking straight through me .

She says her heart is broken . . . I see the pieces all around

I just can't be alone now
Your the only one I've found

So the night made up a midnight
And the music made up songs
And she built up her castles
before they all came tumbling down
And she looked just like an angel
One without her feathered wings
And I wanted to kiss her
But she collected only Queens

The night turned into daylight
She said she had to go
But she wanted to thank me
Most people would've said no

And then she hugged me
like a big brother to me you are

Then in another second
she was driving off in her car

And she looked just like an angel
One without her feathered wings
Still she flew on without me
An angel without any rings

And my heart was breaking
Fool you can't be this way I say

Still she was an angel
Without a halo to display

a pulse of kalopsia, tears out existence.
the light is off, the night is silent.
the ravens don't sing,
because the moon is on her period.
strings and strings of night,
are angles across the starry sky,
i haven't found oxygen in me,
but i have found life in my soul.
the noise is silence, and it wakes up the mountains,
the stream is flowing through corners,
the crickets have been silent, because the night is draped in colours that they couldn't see.
maybe they realize that time is galloping across the beards of silence set on the horizon.
the heart has become a fugitive,
running away in endless arrays of despair,
when all it can do is hide on barren fields.
there is no beauty to dismantled feelings,
not in a million years of wind's change.
but there is a strange isotonic throbbing,
to the chest, past the bones.
everytime the night sheds her tears, and the moon watches closely.
facile in face of words that do not exist.
scarce in face of pages that'll never be written.