Hands tied,
eyes sealed—
silence embraced.

A restless palace of words;
the crown is lost—
where could she be?

Heartbeat stirs,
memories emerge;
madam, are you asleep?

Parallel roads,
horizon’s hues—
where are you?

-mahat

Love; a rebirth of heavens, albeit it must've been decaying in soil where I was born; it was love, it always has been. I bestowed a departure to the islands that once was a  home, as I'm coming back to the oceans, far from home, calling me. Sky high is my love and so the heaven's in your eyes.

My armor is a disdain, I know I wouldn't be a muse. My hair cascades as the stars and dust dances like the galaxies; I am a beautiful sight. I waltz through the beat of my heart, and she said "heaven, earth, sea" a prayer spoken that's coiled in her chest.

Self-inflict, inner conflict,
You have yourself to blame.

No sense in looking to
Someone else when

You can’t even look
At me,

Almost like you’re
Ashamed.

Was it something
I said?

Did I go too far,
Or did I tear us
Apart a little more?

When the world
Isn’t easy, we both
Try to avoid and hide

And argue
Who is right.

There’s no space
For resolution
Or compromise.

So we dance,
One more time,

And pretend nothing
Ever changes
And remains the same.

So continue to avoid
Looking me in the eyes
And take my hand.

There’s no compromise
Without a little pain
Time and time again.

So let’s dance and
Tip-toe on thin wire

And let our hearts
Set on fire

One last time.

My love has been slipping beyond my grasp, as if it's the faintest light in a lone island I reach in between the gaps of my fingers. In this mere happenstance, you are my greatest expedition that would be written in pages; A conquest that no one could ever have, I was a ticking bomb waiting for the fall of promises that were long drowned at the sea I called "you", a silent yet vengeful endless depth, I named it as my territory, a catastrophic dream, in an afternoon storm.

i found myself reading
the words of Bukowski
as he describes a series
of meaningless moments
aspects of a journey
seemingly trifling
prosaic and unremarkable
in the manner recounted

a bus stops at a cafe
in the hills
lightly touched by
a newly-falling snow
of food and coffee
he says both were good
the waitress rare
the cook effervescent
the dishwasher commodious

as the snow swirls
beyond the window
he describes the scene
as beautiful but curious
certain it will forever
be beautiful in that way
he wished to stay
yet returned to the bus
nonetheless
when the driver beckoned

the other passengers
spoke or read or
tried to sleep
and none had noticed
the beauty of that moment
that something could be
so poignant to one
while being mundane
to others
is worth remembering
i guess

There's nothing I can really own,
I ache at something that wasn't mine; no memories to recollect and no sound of voice that I could memorize, not even a light could stay within.

And even the sky changes its color, it doesn't even own the stars.

There are two opposing things that define me: a poignant in eulogy, a melancholia in a deep blue sky and
a parallel and current;
it is boundless.

My love is an empty cage, grown in an innocent body, tearing flesh by flesh,
yearning mouth by mouth, a chest is a garden full of butterflies, my veins is a vial of momentary currents and curves molded to each caresses of something that lingers.

These parallels are a loose thread that bounds a brokenness, and on each pull of the gravity, I would ache to skin and bone.

                                        It is boundless.

In the process of Failing to notice
That I was Falling in love with You,

My mind made you a part of me and
Now that I realize, I came so far and Loved so long,

I don't even remember what you were like,
All I have left is a figment of my stupid imagination and That!,
That doesn't even amount to a fraction of what you are.