I kneel before the temple of tomorrow, while still lingering in yesterday.  Cut by broken promises, and choking on the words I couldn't say.

Here I cried a river so vast, that it became a sea. I cupped my hands but couldn't catch, all the shattered parts of me.

Prayers slip from red stained lips, but it's just to heavy in heart. There's no more a clear reflection, that ripples do not part.

I have hope tucked in my pocket,  I built this raft with dreams. But I can't keep from drowning, it's busting at the seams.

Waves pull from the earth, my heart now ticks to the rhythm of sorrow. I can't mend what's already fallen apart, but I can find faith in the Temple of tomorrow.

(of Angkor Wat)



Two years after, i still think of that
forest, where an old temple stands...
most structures are carved with intricate
designs and images...architecture was
influenced by their Khmer culture...

posts, frames and doors are stilled,
statues are tight-lipped, like frozen
witnesses...drowning in the voices
and noises of flocks of tourists,
reminding me of the noise and confusion
of my daily existence....in my own world..

i went up and down many stairs, went through
doors within doors, i lost count, while catching  
my breath, wondered why there were just door
frames............silent walls, old posts, and old
trees gave a cold feel of a distant past......yet,
in my mind, an aura of magic and mystery
hovered upon the entire temple...as if ghosts
of wisdom, and lots of stories lay dormant,
imprisoned......within the structures...

two summers and monsoon seasons passed,
my thoughts on Angkor Wat, haunt me still,
and bring back my thoughts on those doors;

some doors on our paths are closed shut,
some are ajar...some open easily, but are
ignored, or feared...some, close too soon,
before we make our first step to enter...
some stay open, yet, we become complacent,
some, have no closures or finality...leaves
one in limbo....
how will we know if it's the last one for us?
how many doors more...for you? for me?
does death give an end to life's entrances?
........or, is it just a beginning?


Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 2017

you look at me like you might drown in me
a body of water, to rinse away the exhaustion
you look at me like there are depths you've yet to dive into
uncharted territory
you trace the inches of me like there will always be more to love
like you will never grow tired of the skin I'm in
I've grown up knowing that my body is a temple
but I've never met someone so dedicated to worshipping it

You once told me
that Monday was Thursday,
Tuesday was Friday
and Wednesday...
-well Wednesday was Wednesday
and I believed it to be true

You were the force
that pulled the sun across my sky
and brought rain,
miraculously placing laughter
on my parched lips.
You wrote the maps
and formed minutes into hours
-letters into words
And when you smiled,
I believed it was just for me.

Your wish was my command
and my truth was your word.
I happily danced
when you pulled on my strings.

You vanished in a storm
and the blur of October, November,
February
Here one moment, gone the next
-with no goodbye,
apology or promise-prophecy.

But my world kept flowing
and the sun traced its arc
across my sky without your help.
My chest rose and fell
and Monday was Monday again
-the rain poured of its own accord
and my cracked lips found song.

Perhaps you have returned
from time to time
to your empty temple
-found it void of worship
and the voids filled once more.
Perhaps the legends are true
and you have become
deaf and blind
-unable to find your way back to me.

I should like the rumours
to be true
because my world turns
just fine without you.

Where there is thunder that reigns
down the emptiness of your flesh,
in a war hidden and filled with apathy,
to sink behind darkness , once named shame.

There it is, the torn kingdom,
that you've claimed as your body.
The temple which you've loved,
but never cared for in those aeons of silence.

Where you pretended that doing nothing
would solve everything.

And so you weep, for the unfairness of it all,
as you claw at your already mangled flesh,
and press for the warmth of your heart.
Pretend that the rush of blood is a rolling blanket.

You swallow those shards of glass, and emulate the heavens,
and pretend your body with jagged scars
is the place for honourable heroes; pretend your triumph
in this barren, damp land of storms
is the place where thunder always reigns.

A place for heroes who never won, but died in their place.

I remember my dreams of a holy place,
a library where I ran, just a little boy with other boys,
with a great stained glass window filling up the space
on the pointed ceiling above the sacred text
that left me perplexed
and mouthing a few syllables when I could understand,
and wishing to feel the soft cloth on my head,
over a short haircut that I didn't have.

I can't truly say if it was a dream,
but I remember walking outside into the desert with those little boys, feeling jealous of their kippahs,
and eventually we stopped at what I thought might be like a stream,
but was only a canal in the wasteland.
The tumbleweeds whispered and rattled,
but no snakes slid out of them with a tail that rattled quite the same.

I grew up though, far away now,
with the heavy weight of knowledge on my back
and the feeling of sweat on my brow.
I have heard a lot, and that soundless world where I spent all of my time looking and none of my time listening
is gone. I listen and I look now,
and I tell a girl about my observations
while she marvels and tells me what to do with them,
but there is nothing much to become
when despite my ambition
I hold myself back with the most unholy things.