Grandmother

Wise, long wrinkles reach the ends of drenched skin
telling the tale of a lost youth
It's dotted moles
plastered along the outline of her face
like dried molded paint across the canvas slide

Her portrait stands in the empty living room
covered with the grease of burned out charcoal

The smell of freshly baked dough lingers through the kitchen
and in the oven,
remains her last batch of English muffins
Its colorless lights trapped inside flashes a dull smile
as it flickers back to the evening sun

Senile and novel
the dust dances with the sun set between the stained window glass
waiting to be freed from the voracious task of standing still

And with a nudge of a finger,
the window opens
liberating the obsolete remains my grandmother forgot to take

I look out the window
with the company of dusk grey clouds
and I try to remember her face
as I sit down on the same empty bed
awaiting the departure of her oat-budded scent

Panorama

I hear whispers emerging

from these men on board

telling their tale with spite

from the back of their heads

as I skim past the paintings of men in armor suits

It's tilted helmet and it's mud-filled shoes

laying close 

side by side

The shimmering light has not returned 

These men clamant to go home 

to the arms they will never return

Their red shot eyes and their laxed posture

their grieves beyond yonder now comes below their dreaded eye bags

and pools of blood outline these men

as their bodies begin to intertwine like creased paper

As the tale meets its end

the pools of blood by fear struck men align

Their blood becoming darker and colder

smells of revenge and honour

covered by the howling of other distant men

Counting

On top of a sakura tree
A man lies on the rusty brown bench
Reading of the passing winter
that was coming to a closure.

He slimmers closer to the edge
feeling for an unsymmetrical bump.
Somewhat a depression
that elevated his head.

His head angled towards the sky
covered with small samplings
of yet to blossom cherry babies.

He senses the empty seat,
one right beside him,
missing the one who conquered his throbbing heart.
And solace,
as cold gust rises,
shelters him tight.

Memories like train racks
appear like a switch
there's no escape
only going forward.
He walks with resignation
facing the same old pain the year before.
Right towards the last stop,
he pauses towards a womanly figure.

His eyes slowly matches hers
as the figure slowly melts from her position.
He recalls
they have met once or twice
from way back a year or two.

And the gap closes,
she bulges her eyes
suppressing her fear
the man simply nods
it was him to blame.

They look at each other
finding themselves sitting side by side
on the newly made brown bench.
Its wet paint still visible
counting the minutes as each droplet falls.

He feels the unsymmetrical bump.
The woman is gone.
The paint is dry and old.

He has finished winter's end and with a blink
Spring has come
He gazes back up to see the melting snow
revealing grown cherry blossoms.

He lets out a sigh
and lays back down
shutting down his world and entering deep slumber.

Shadow

It enters through the creaks of withered wood.

Its color turning darker as the it sways away from the light.

It roams around the room
looking for a treasure chest
that it played with years ago.

Moving freely
it takes its time
going past time
and reviving its memory as a young boy.

He was lost his purpose.
There's no room for him anymore.
No ones waiting for him.
And he,
drags himself back into the open air.

And the shadow disappears in thin air.

Lamp Post

It seems to only come to life
At a certain darkness in time
The ticking of the clock
Counts the minutes gone by

The evening seems to take long to come
Is it the sunlight that refuses to go
or is it your ignorance to come

Ah, it came
When the clock ticked to six
And the lights turned on
Shimmering in the lamp post

At last my friend as returned from a long holiday
And I run to it
But so did the others

All fighting for a piece of it's affection
we squirm around

But I seem to be a minute late
The other came seconds before

I sigh with resignation,
And leave to look for another companion

I am only a fly,
Waiting for the next evening to come

Those Eyes

The darkness fills the night
The evening birds run towards their homes
Hidden underneath the crops of ancient tribes

A woman as tall as the evening sky turns her head from side to side
Wavering in fear as foreigners enter her home

The humid air glisters in red
Leaving droplets of blood
Staining the trees of cultivated land

Alone,
The woman hides underneath the hidden room
The darkness fills the room
And the woman is swallowed

But the woman,
Her eyes as bright as the stars,
Her eyes cannot be covered
In her eyes, she is caught

And at the last moment
The look in her eyes.
Those eyes
And they glimmer in the dark

Picture

A picture is taken out from the attic box
A dust filled frame covering the identities of six people

They seem like children
Sitting uncomfortably but still smiling
Trying to fit into the picture frame

I tried to remember as I brush off the dirt

A familiar face is revealed
An oval shaped face,
A small triangular nose,
A pair of crescent shaped eyes,
And a pair of C-shaped ears

From my wallet
I pulled out a picture
It draws such a resemblance
It could be me
That girl was me

I began to clear out the remaining faces
I saw my brothers, their friends, and my friend
We were all crouching down in rows of two
Careful not to cover each others faces'
But also cracking jokes here and there

The photo of us pictured the most happiest moment
Everyone was smiling with their teeth wide open showing the spaces between the their baby teeth
and their eyes crushing the crescent outline of the eye

I remember those days
And I miss those days

I turn to place it back on the shelf
But it doesn't belong in the attic
nor my house
It belongs somewhere else

I held it between my chest
Treasuring one last time as I run out returning to the living room
The room where five people were waiting
They waved at me to come

I showed them the picture
we looked at each other
and a familiar crescent smile flashed our faces
And we talked about our childhood days
as we walked out the door

The Printing Room

The papers are flying
The workers are crying

Too much printing
Too little pairs of working hand

The papers are flying
Too much people are printing

The room is sacked with paper
filled with words and colors

The ink is simmering down the trail of mark
The papers are showering with colors of blue, pink, and yellow

Too much work
Too much printing
It's time for lunch
and for the 10th time they leave the room

Now I see why my printed papers are in a mess
But let the printing continue it's game!

Exposed

There's something in him

I can't seem to catch.

Something distinct,

something rare.

It's hiding

but its emitting through his eyes,
luring me to look closer

like a painting that needs inspection
for a dripping wet paint.

I take a step forward,
and it takes a step back.
It looks at me
curious yet frightened
wondering if I was here to catch it.

I lift my arms
and rest my hands
on the very spot
that used to be filled with warmth.

I can sense it's stare,
longing and hopeful.

But there was no hope,
not for it.

It's longing for possession
within that body of his
has turned the warm sea into ice bergs
and the warm summer into a lifeless winter.

I look back at it.
This time, into his eyes
and
this time, it has left.

It has left with a trailing cloud of darkness.
But with each trail the colors got brighter
as if it was never there to begin with.

All that is left
is the lifeless body staring back at me.

Reciting

I won't let history repeat itself.

There's something to it

I don't want to catch.

There's something to it

I don't want to see.

I won't let history repeat itself.

It's itchy glare,

It's slithering tone 

will not be heard nor felt.

It's long chain of memories

filled with so much remorse

and isolation

will no longer flow with solitary tears.

History will not repeat itself

but I might have allowed it to repeat.

I might have turned on the switch

that makes the same mistake not to stop.

It's no longer intact anyways,

I'll just let it recite once more.