Sunday, June 19, 2011

Under Cover

Her unbelieving and barely tearful eyes.
Wishing she was blind, postponing her waking tide,
she faced clear and outlined disappointment.
Not feeling damaged by her increasingly damaged health,
but actually by her increasingly conscious self,
that insisted on poking her with its sticks of shame and regret.
She felt powerless and faux to the bone,
and wished for once she was forever alone
so as not to deceive or misguide anyone in a close range to her.

There was enough damage done,
but it kept on showing over, regardless of how much of her quilt
was being lifted upon

Monday, June 06, 2011


If that page disappeared yesterday,
would you be bothered by the gap in narrative?
The content was mostly very cryptic, subtly psychological,
and self-consciously analytical in nature,
but maybe not essential to your comprehension of the whole.
Was it ever, after all?

The page may happen to be floating to some foreign wind,
also ignorant of your story being told.
But could it really unfold in any chapter other than your own?
Words thrown to the breeze, characters lost to some weird rhyme,
scribbled in a page you may not care to even notice.
An essay on the uninteresting spirit
vanishing, without effort, on the sly.

It is not missed, neither can survive,
as it reckons in the absence of your watchful eyes.