Everything has been torn to pieces
just like how old roses falls
there is nothing left to show,
not even specks of dust,
from every single side, front to back,
nothing have been left behind.

Hardships, despair, lost,
they say every goodbye comes with a new start,
but what I get have always been a goodbye.

Old dead roses fade away
and so is my existence
the once sharp thorns started to blunt
just like how bland my days have become

But every day is a new life, a new page,
roses will grow again,
prickling its thorns to those who hurts
Standing tall and pretty,
Just like how I will stand for myself,
Rejuvenate and grow
along with those roses loved by everyone
And until then, I will become,
that roses behind every thorns.

The mellow light of dusk
Shines in through cracks
Of curtains and blinds
Faded by time and sun

Old wood creaks
As the house settles and shifts
Dust and particles stir
With every wisp of stale air

A music box plays
Next to a crooked lamp
Whose blackened light bulb
Had long since burnt out

Night draws near
Yet ever so slowly
As the music box continues
Its soft strange tune

And with its final chime
Will the sun then sink
Below the amaranth sky
And into the oblivion of night

There is
a ripeness
          pending.
It stares at
me in the face,
          unblinking,
like an animal
ready to pounce.
It drinks in
my psyche,
             my blood
pumping
in its wild, tender veins.
It soaks up
the vitality
           clamoring
within me, like
a tornado
about to break force,
winds gathering
tightly under moonlight
a cosmic dam about
                      to burst.
It is a spell
cast into wilderness,
pristine and untouched,
yet longing for fulfillment
an undoing
of the senses
a subconscious unraveling
that journeys into
            unknown vistas
                with no map
Perhaps the
only real guidance
is each fine-tuned
          sensibility in turn:
Eyes taking in the colors
within pulsing electricity
as they merge
             and re-separate
into distinct tinctures
of luminosity  
Ears welcoming
the instruments
        of our bodies
as they writhe in tune
with acoustic passion,
hearing the cries of
wolf and owl whispers
          of trees deeply
reverberating into nightfall
Smell, to inhale
the muskiness of earth
the salt of sea
the crisp dusk of fire
and your pinelit, animal scent
                           familiar yet far
tracing me to you
like predator to prey
in magnetic vortex
  Touch,
                 to hold the
strands of my being
in place, steadied
by mahogany and silk
soft and solid at once
as the rhythms of storm
                 rock the house
And then:
Taste
to lusciously peel back
the layers of
             our essence        
letting them brew
in their own juices      
as they gather
  upon the tongue
in an effulgent stream:
sweet merging with salt
      pleasantly sour and piquant
with understanding
whetting appetites
in a sumptuous feast
         of enlightenment
that only shows us how,
in both primitive and
             ethereal awareness,
we had known this
was going
to happen
       all our
             lives

Warm paint upon my hands
the canvas calling to me
my hands trace the fabric
leaving memories of you
streaked across the white
I chose black first of all
for your deceitful heart
and red for my fuming anger
the last color I choose
for this horrific masterpiece
is blue to represent
my never-ending regret

Your delicate face
has taken residence
in my deepest dreams
eyes the color of cappuccino
with lengthy raven curls
upon your bronzed skin
and your smile
as beautiful
as the morning sun
may I never wake again