Leonora stands on a balcony, absent-mindedly , all the city life has blurred her ability to stop and devour the city skyline. She stares at her diary flooding with ideas and pieces of writing she doesn't know what she'll do with.

Her attention is filled with ecstacy because of the morning cigarette of thinly wrapped marijuana, she occasionally puffs along with a glass of expensive white wine she barely can afford. She doesn't know it yet but her being lost is her being on track's  way.  The morning star breaks dawn as she sits on her chair and crumples the pages of her diary writing her recently found adoration of sunrise.

The clothes covering her petite figure, her big unkempt natural afro and barely furnished apartment looks modern but her spirit still roams the valleys of back home.



The Lost One is never lost

Your ceramical-faced poetry is heartening, despite its woe. As long as gangrene doesn't claim my frost-bitten toe, I'll be able to swim against storm currents without flippers, on a diet of trout & kippers while you must “live” on imitation chocolate wafers & tap roots, dog parts & Cebu City bamboo shoots. It could be cranial-5-nerve trigeminal neuralgia, the suicide disease, that plays like the sledge-hammering of jangled vibraphone keys. I feel not my left lung, nor my palate & tongue after losing a gangrenous toe on a broken ladder rung.

As long as gangrene doesn't claim my frost-bitten toe, I'll be able to swim against storm currents without flippers, on a diet of trout & kippers while you must “live” on imitation chocolate wafers & tap roots, dog parts & Cebu City bamboo shoots. It could be cranial-5-nerve trigeminal neuralgia, the suicide disease, that plays like the sledge-hammering of jangled vibraphone keys. I feel not my left lung, nor my palate & tongue after losing a gangrenous toe on a broken ladder rung.