to choose the forest is to be
lost, and lost in the trees
guided by stars, not to a journey
but turning to some place worth exploring

you loved life with your being
and passed the forest for its trees;
the string of red ribbons happens to be
constellations within the captive sea

but lost you were with your own
itself ripped apart of definition
looking back, its love brings you
back to its original destination

though their signposts lead to more obstacles
and landmarks fetter into miserable,
its fractures into a blissful wonder
in place of stars for faded luster

at some point, you just know that
you have got to let them go

of the first time we connected
all those memories we both established
those quirks, my quirks
and remained are flaws, irredeemable flaws

of the places we visited
and of the places that could have been
they now remain as stolen dreams
and retain in them, nightmares born
to its deserving king

of the ideas and lies that
perpetuated my thoughts
to you and for you
like a love that stalks rather
than one you wish I would have

of you
he who once was the sun to me
whose smile was solace like the moon
and though, most probably, it was all built in lies
it was something, truly moving
but remains in the sky, was nothing

that is why these things have to go
the stains that once belonged
and in their places are impressions, gone
what now remains, if they wish to remain,
are dreams that turned into nightmares
ghosts that I long ignored
love once harbored
and... you

in the end, I am declared
guilty

to be free from the chains of contrivance
to finally rely on noble companions
from facade to its truths
born flowers will bore fruit

to be requested release
and to forever deny its reprise

to be loved, and finally to love
and matters not that never mattered
past chains perish, and the future followed
as warm as the sun
forever cursed to bear the fervor

to be chained,

to be denied and drought
as I have done to he
as the moon without its sun

at the start, the only crime committed
was being me

the concept of art
is a mere combination
of common logic
and compelling academic
yet when it comes
to an abstract composition
it all falls down
to pure academic

but it does not mean
that a work’s meaning
becomes diluted with
academic discourse
but it does mean
that its meaning
is measured by
someone who sees
the moment of clarity
at the right distance
at its sufficient mindset

what can be classified
as romantic?
do both parties partially understand
the mechanics
of exchange, its similies and subtleties
or worse,
the nature of its never-stagnant
recourse?

of course, as a writer myself,
one could
always find the answer
but would
never find the perfect example
as if
the mere combination of a couple
letters of

would fit your needs as well as mine
but
nonetheless, my friend, we all
know the
answer, somewhere, and I'd like
to believe
that the person you'd write to
knows that too.

"are you happy?"
echoing
lingering
imitating
reanimating sound

"maybe"
cyclic
anemic
phobic
armistice

"I am asking for a yes or a no"
endangered
requiting
enamored
caprice

"so which is it?"
vibrating
shattering
lingering
doubt

"are you truly happy?"
monotheistic
never-ending
asphyxiating
reprise