Monday, December 28, 2009

To Stella

Void of days uneventful
Foretold by misread fate
Culminates my residual
Sublunary awe of late.

Junipers of this fairyland
How diverge, converge,
Lilac of scents transcend
Your imitations surge.

So fervent is passion
To stroll untrodden leas,
The hopes of intervention
Deadens me in pleas.

Solemn sans the caress
Fraying, failing on cross,
All so desolate and as
Flowerless as a moss.

Hence even so I espy
Faces to mould, manifold,
Lest unbeknownst how I
To you shall be sold.


Sunday, December 06, 2009


(Words I managed to pen 7 years ago. Back when the news of a certain woman's infertility did leave me with few. Childlike? I was, amateur? I am)

Not tonight,
Not tomorrow,
Not in this lifetime,
Revelations, not in the stars any longer.

Heaven is futile,
An eternal aisle,
Not lasting a while,
And hopes certainly rattle with a sound.

A broken room,
An empty cradle,
An obtuse poem,
Never enough to slay this quiescence.

Tears are cure,
Cure is unreal,
Reality is nonexistent,
The very own cabbalism of overnight life.

The bred silence,
A barren ambiance,
Change it all,
Or please, let her sleep for another night.