The white globe glows on

We will all tremor in the future
And there will be no mistaken escape
No sense of time after apocalypse
What a strange and magnificent invention
Is the prophecy of our own death
* * *
We exploit so much of what is given
Only to be erased by time’s earthy hands
Forever and for good, cheers to our stay
We who were braver for the failures of our fears
* * *
There’s no comfort in tomorrow, if you know
What is to come, there’s no dawn to sooth the ache
Only the exquisite dream of utopia
Whispers from the Upanishades, of all things
* * *
We will love the future, even if it won’t be ours
It’s better by far than loving the past
The past has its own authority over us
Which we cannot yet control
* * *
We live in sketches that wish to be real
In simulations of quantum entanglement so elegant
The white globe glows on, humanity is a wounded woman
Obliged to accept her role in our decay.

I Close My Eyes

 

Let me kiss the softness of the night

Hae.mi, to which I’ll never know

I am the wildness in your purity

Though if I yearn for it too much, it will go

Into the music of misaligned intention

Into the pictures of faces unknown

Back to the masses of our stories

Our stories that are always wounded

You say I remind you of some unpleasantness

Can I not exalt and rejoice in each invisible encounter

For in my poverty of heart, I’m indebted to be haunted

I am very dark, but lovely, and loving – or else

An anonymous thief, ready to be caught

As a famous beggar for gifts of tenderness

I am the mystic honey in the simultaneous midnight

I am the lonely wolf of lost time, there’s no room for me

Between earthly lives and mothers and sons, I’ve been left

Abandoned by the vulnerable timid ones so cautious

There are silver scales in my snowy pupils

And I am your student, fine-arted through the fall

Let me embrace what I cannot possess, Hae.mi, I am dumbfounded

Though I indeed was once so innocent

There’s no closure until the time of new lovers

I know how sleek the seasons move

The souls of winter are my fondest friends

We’re all souls of mothers and pieces of each other.

On the wage of Art and Price of Youth

There is a romantic mark
In our hearts of sinking days
That sad similitude of being awake
While we dwindle our life’s wage away

Exhausted by nature, loved by none
We must dream up magic
From suffering’s destiny
And find fond bliss in monotony

And balmy incense to reveal
The melodies beneath the toil
And the smiles that do not turn away in vain
I to these restless symbols purge

The love that got away of destiny
Where free-will was a measure
Of our intelligence and motivation
That were the hours of our youth

Whose vulgarity of error was nothing more
Than the brief centre of an aching heart
There is a romantic streak
That burns our nights to the ground

Some call it art, others sacrifice
I must press on in solemn epiphanies
That break the butterfly wings of time
For all the ache is nothing more
Than mere beauty in experiment.

Walking through the light of the world

We scattered to the night
like diamonds and stars
owls of forever
never to be seen or heard
from again, my friends
went off, I carried their words
in my pockets, on my heart
those burning treasures
the years of bones and
making it alone
The private hours that gnaw
At the days like lost battles
Humiliations too common
In a cruel world like this one
We scattered to the night
Like lost lovers of literature
Desecrated by the seasons

The kind of wet deep down sorrow
That each broken heart multiplies
Here is where every speech ends
Here is what they don’t say
What happens after the story
Here the star is black
And the light empties out
Even of the shadows.

Photo Courtesy:

1. http://www.deviantart.com/art/BELIEVE-IN-FAIRIES-487738766
2. http://www.deviantart.com/art/Oh-Ophelia-487357522