Down the drain into the world
Let the traumas begin
In my shadow
In my fears
I am sin
Integrate me
Or disassociate me
Sanity’s at stake
Read some Freud or Carl Jung
When you wake and bake
🙏

Stolen stares as she passed by
the city lights and countless hues of
shadows departing by the cars slowing down
and fast — she can recognize and sense their beings.

Though there was some music playing back and forth,
she can still hear the gasps and woes of these
shadows passing by the cars slowing down
and fast — ghosts of the buried.

The road is brisk and dismissive with the vivid pigments
of the city lights and the moon following every pace; even then, the shadows keep following her,
telling her to confess a sin
she hid so well, of buried things and a song
she wants to sing.

These ghosts keep following her
in the city lights, they show their faces
and hide their remorse,
for she will be one of them soon
if she does not sing
her favorite song now.

She took out her notebook and penned
a note — of a deadly sin she must confess
to an angel and let it fly across his way,
for she must live in freedom soon
and sing her favorite song.

In the same city lights,
there sat the man
whom she loves, once a ghost of the past
of buried regret and woes.
Maybe then, if he
composed his song, 'tis then he will be free.

In the city of lost forbidden lights, there are two ghosts
passing by the cars slowing down and fast —
blind senses and dying requests to angels,
for maybe then, they will be free from the burial
of the dead.

Far away on the lands so far,
Our hands clasped at the eleventh hour,
Love escaped our lips as we parted love,
Life nictates a crippling affliction of life.

Remedy this sally through thy remedy,
Cry out to our blithe life as we both cry.
Pledge me a gift as a parting pledge,
Break away thy pledge and so shall we break.

Life of mine makes a plea to thy life,
Forget me my love for I cannot forget,
Loath me my love for I cannot loath,
Live for me my love for I cannot live.

Reminisce the memories that we reminisce.
Story of our life, let me dream a new story.

On this warm spring day,
The light peers in my window,
Quiet as it can,
Asking questions of shadows:
"Do these walls have ears?
And what does the clock-face see?
Is the lamp lonely,
And does the pillow know tears?"
The shadows answer,
In their sweetest honeyed voice,
"We gave the walls ears,
And the clock has our blank face.
The lamp loves the dark,
Just as the pillow drinks tears.
Won't you come deeper,
Deeper into our shadows,
And hear what we know?"
Will the light claim its homeland,
Burning up the dark
And swallowing the night whole,
Or will it shrink back,
Afraid to see the hard truth
That my shadows breathe
And the darkness grows deeper
Fated to hold the sleeper?

The glistening palm trees cast a Cimmerian shade, stretching far across. Odd was how the dark wavering imprint was perceivable in the tenebrosity of the night. The moon, smothered by the viscous clouds, was unable to fulfill its illuminating role. The wind sang for the nightingales perched on the trees an entrancing sorrowful hymn, a disconsolate requiem, meant solely to succor. All in vain. Such are the innerworkings of a soul tainted by grief and vehement rage. He would ask for forgiveness, but only if he knew how, and even if he did, who would he ask. Once the soul has been blotted, it hardly ever finds its way back to its purity. The same wretched purity that inculcated the need for self-imposed harm. 'Tis true men will desire oblivion rather than not desire at all. He knew all this since the earliest drop of ichor was divulged on his account. Then it streamed, like a river with the steadiest of currents. His hands were, for the first time, sanctified as they soaked the blood. If only he knew how to foster the fire, leaving the trees incinerated, while forsaking the land of all shadow except that of the nightingales fleeing.