As I go towards the sleeping state,
mental images of silhouette people
float in my head as they dance
and fly in a place
where they are completely
under the ruling of my mind.
I sleep for hours in a day,
chasing these silhouette people
Trying to catch a glimpse of faces
But they remain faceless.
And I think to myself,
what if we are just a dream
of a God in slumber?
Co-existing in a wild cosmos
of undulated dream waves,
Waiting for the waking hour
An hour of death.
if I could paint love,
it looks like this:
singing you a lullaby when you can’t sleep;
waking up every morning to see what you are up to;
embracing all your imperfections;
cancelling plans to encourage your dreams;
and just being there, like the wind, that pushes you to fly…
(A mother’s love is the most beautiful love there is. Simple, yet strong.)
* * *
The first step is the hardest,
acknowledge you don’t have one.
And the next is to unravel~
dive deeper in the waters.
Third, is to connect—
time is the only barrier.
Fourth, shout out your pleas
to the sky, and down below.
Fifth, transform your cries
And finally, the sixth…
share it to the world!
* * *
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…
* * *
Off to the mountains, Another side of the world is lit. Down here, the darkness engulfs us, stirring inky thoughts to my coffee addled mind.
If I can just follow the sun in the mud trails up there, and cleanse my soul with its light…
maybe I will hear the songs of the Earth again.
* * *
My love for you is ink stained—
green, when i planted thoughts of you
purple, when you were my king
blue, when i thought you were my sky
and black, when i was over you
My love for you is ink stained,
validated by the waiting paper.