When the light comes flooding back

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If you see yourself at the end of the road
and wondering
where to begin again…
while all around you is darkness;
What would you do
when the light comes flooding back?

The world you are in is one big messy blur
of foggy highways
you’re on your way, but where to?
Just like being trapped in an endless eerie night
stalking the dawn…
But when it comes, would you be prepared
when the light comes flooding back?

And when at last your sleep is nigh
down to nature’s bed
where every weary traveler arrives;
The reaper of the soul, when it knocks,
Would it be a welcome or a bid goodbye?
when the light comes flooding…

en plein air

I catch the drift of the afternoon hum:
of kids playing on the streets,
a mother setting dried leaves on fire
to ward off the little vampires (the mosquitoes),
the occasional motorbikes passing…

I listened closer as far as my eyes can observe;
trees are slowly silhouetted against pale gray sky
Somewhere, cicadas sing their prelude to the night
and house lights one by one illuminate the town.

Embracing the afternoon fading into night,
I wonder if this is how seeds feel underground
(vulnerable and detached from the sun’s light)
the thought is suffocating, so are growth pains.
The kids’ laughter, the fire burning on, and bikes
awaken me to the here, the now, outside…


*   *   *

 

 

if i were a soul…

if i were a soul,

i would mash all my troubles,

break away, and fly free!..

to where your love awaits.

 

 

if i were a soul,

i would journey through the moon,

beyond where our dreams are

coveted by the fallen stars.

 

 

if i were a soul,

i would watch where the sun goes

when her light leaves for the night

and console her woes of the day.

 

 

if i were a soul,

i would follow the wind

soar high up yonder..

reaching for heaven.

 

* * *

A Cup of Warmth

Last night, on a bus, city bound…
traveling light with a usual backpack;
feeling nauseous as anxiety creeps,
that fear of the uncharted
as I drifted past towns.

One hundred and twenty minutes after,
seven thousand two hundred in seconds,
I stepped out of the bus (a yellow bus)
while the driver grumbles in his seat
for my short-notice stop.
I was barely even there yet,
but it’s getting cold…

Light-headed, I wandered;
Aching for a cup of warm drink.

I found myself in a bakeshop,
asked the lady there if they have coffee;
need to ask twice, or was it three times?
before she finally moved, poured, stirred,
Handed the coffee, in a paper cup.

Everything seemed not right that night.
Was it the city or just me? I reflected
as I sipped, caffeine opening my senses
–bland.
The cold started to slip away, while
my mind was still grasping
where I’m headed.

The cup half empty, I started to walk.

On the street, a stranger caught my eye,
a man in deep slumber;
the asphalt for bed.
I thought ~
Why can’t I be grateful
for even the worst cup of warmth?

That night, coffee never tasted that bad.

* * *