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.

Just a Dream

I miss being home,
I miss being there.
I miss going around,
I miss going there.

Everything from here
reminds me of there
like some kind of fantasy
that just wouldn't leave me alone.

Everything from there
reminds me of nothing
like some kind of reality
that never seems to hit.

No one would get
but the simplest idea
that I'm just a step away.

I'd bring
I'd carry
I'd hug
I'd cry

As the time goes by
I'll walk farther from there
and nearer to here
just another step away from what I missed.

Next To The Railroad

Trees faded into the loneliness of the world  

as the sun set

ready to repose

for tomorrow's day.

Leaves withered like a man who has lost in his fight

covering the tracks of the railroad

covering the path

of the home of others.

As greens of the leaves became shallow

darkness invaded

as if there is no such thing

as another being.

Everything disappeared,

the trees that swayed with the wind

and the railroad 
that was filled with people during the morning rush.

A New Era

A king creates his kingdom

Full of pride and honour.

He pleases royalties and peasants

for the trade of chess pieces

placed upon a wooden board.

Yet,

the crown that carries the king

has chosen a new prey.

It abandons the king, now a toppled pawn.

The king who had once owned fortunes

falls to his knees,

the pride he had built now lost

with a soft push.

A new king rises,

restarting a new game of chess.

The pieces are set one by one;

they steadily try to balance once again.

And with a wicked grin,

he places the crown on his head

ready to start another game.

A new era has begun.

The rules

We don't play by the rules.
We don't act by the law
and we don't style by the society.

We've done this
and we've done that.
But nothing fits our preference,
just as we wish.

So, we broke a few rules,
played against the law
and rejected the demands of what the society wants.

We're not a product,
we're not an animal.
We're just children
having fun
and with this
our preference is chosen.

We play by our rules.
We act by our law
and we style by our society.

Duration

It's been long,
very long indeed.
What seems to have been a minute or so
became a day or so.

It's been short,
a short break of being indulged.
What seems to have taken a month or so
turned into a hour or so.

It goes long
then comes back short.
Furthers the distance
then decreases the speed.

Its only rule,
is to rule oneself
with a complete basics
of time and day.

And,
its only elimination
is the one who has the complete basics
of day and time.

Humanity in a feather

The fallen feather,

from a mixture of glory and shame,

lands in the bottom of the human's nest.

Remains there for a second or two

then flatters across the other side.

Its greyish white feather splashed with

the dirts of the walking shoes.

A tint of the feather remains,

showing the purest grey and

covering the impurest white.

Now, this feather is no longer seen

nor reached

by the hands of those

who took it away.

Thus, it lives,

buried, 

under the footsteps

and far away

from them.