Breathe in loads
of innumerable blades
of memory erasers.

Ah, the feeling
of being lost within
your own thought.

Wishing for just
a brief break— from time
and its fast pace (or
if possible, let it
stop. Let the world
stop).

There are familiar places
you can’t get used to
and sometimes
it will all just fade
with experience,
lessons, and

your most beautiful
mistake.

The goddess of dawn strikes
again, challenging her limits
when she has no need to.

Colored northern winds
conspire at the equinox — behold
this sight of abstract beauty, though
what can be seen can’t always be
touched; furthermore, my hands
don’t belong in the space above.

But I’ll make light
of this darkness.

Scouring the inexplicable view, I know
that in the next minute, I’d question
her unbelievable existence and wonder
about the things I’d give
to learn more about that sky.

“Take the straight path”, they say.
but the world never adheres to that.

Cliche as it is:
like moths to flame, the world
orbited endlessly as dictated
by its weary cycle.

The compromise is to never
get too close.

Afraid to burn, Earth
with its fragile body;
Afraid to burn, Sun
with its desire for attention.
Neither side moved
due to mutual benefits, instead
embraced the stalemate.

Something to break the chain?
Answers may be non-existent
because we live in the present
too much… or
perhaps meteors
able to eradicate everything? And
if destruction is the only choice then,
are we supposed to choose?

Right now, we follow
its cause — gravity,
that’s why we fall.

There’s this list:
an almost perfect year-ender,
a chord that didn’t fit so
you had to play it broken,
drafts written for the purpose
of being great poems
but remained as is because
they were missing powerful
words.

The deafening silence.
The feelings you tried to ****.
The misunderstood hints.

Or tropical countries waiting for snow
and insightful books selling poorly.

Somewhere, a boy caught up
in a scenery and bright sunlight.
He wants to be a photographer
but fails to capture passing moments.

“They were too fast”, he said.

Imagine thousands
of pictures behind these
red, mellow eyes.

The endlessness transpiring
in our throats. Spitfire.

Because maybe we were
starving; maybe we
starve for the words
we failed to say that day.

But if you had asked me
back then, how could I say no?

How could I not
make you understand?

We are sheer thoughts
living in a world
of make believe.

Walls of noise disguise
ticking time bombs. What sound
would carnage make when
it shatters into pieces?

By that time, I guess
we’re too broken
to even decipher;

too forgotten
to even remember.