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.

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.

Rebirth

For a little moment,
For a short time.

The book covers itself with dusty clouds
underneath all the old toys and old clothes
waiting for someone to brush them off.

It tries to turn and twist with all its might,
but gets nothing favourable in return.

Just silent,
and nothing but the looks of despair.

How it wants to be opened,
and how it wants to be seen as something
it used to be.

Many days passed,
and still
many people ignore the precious book
that once held the fluttering minds of our young selves.

No longer considered a book,
neither a legend.
But considered something that was just a small entertainment
for us to break free.

And simply
to fulfil curiosity,
a man picks it up and stares.

A mangled book now held on the arms.
Slow hands cleaning away the dark clouds.
The book has still kept its beauty,
and as it opens its tattered papers,
vividly described images engulf the man
into a state of warmth.

The man has obtained his missing childhood book
and that book
is no longer a small entertainment
but a legend brought back into the present.

The Legacy Of Ones Own Journey

There will be a time

on a late summer bed

when a kid will ask me

how I spent my years as a young girl.

I would freeze my two mother-like hands

then maybe give a few chuckle

here and there.

Laugh about a few raindrops I've touched.

Frown about the antique dolls and them

highschool accolades 

still hanging around my spring collections.

Oh, 

and maybe shed a few distant cries 

as I sway myself 

back into my oblivious past

To where I used to flutter 

from my first friend,

to my middle school graduation,

to my first love,

to entering college,

and of course,

to the people whose relationship I've decided to keep.

Despite all this explanation

a mere kid would not understand

what miraculous journey I have created with my own set of 

given and earned privileges.

Or so I presumed

When this kid grows to be a man

He will understand the miraculous journey

I have told him many years ago.

He, too, will make one himself.

Commentary of "The Very Old Man With Enormous Wings"

Gabriel Garcia Marquez's short story, "The Very Old Man With Enormous Wings", summarises how the married couple turn their back on the old angel and put the angel in the chicken coop for the others to see. By the end of the story, the ending makes the readers stir up the thought of being insolent to an angel for being different from the initial one. Marquez uses visual imagery and character analysis between the angel and the human spider to support how illusional figures are better off unseen.

Marquez applies visual imagery to support the destruction of illusional figures when interacted with in the human world. The story starts off by the couple finding "a very old man, lying face down on the mud, who, in spite of his tremendous effort could not get up" because of his enormous wings. This makes the reader imagine how the angel looks and from the description, the angel in the story is nowhere close to the initial angel. Another factor that changes the aspect of the angel is the comparison of an illusional angel's and the story angel's movement. While an illusional figure would have a graceful and elegant movement, the movement of the angel in the story was described as a "rag picker". The comparison between the angel in the story and the reader's interpretation of an angel proves how illusional figures should not interact with humans as it destroys the initial interpretation of illusional figures.

While the angel was stuck in the chicken coop, it encountered other humans that carried irrational behaviours that links back to the idea that illusional figures are better off unseen. Marquez decides to se character analogy between the angel and the spider to convey the destruction of illusional beings in the human world. In the story, the angel encounters a maiden spider, a "woman who has been changed into a spider for having disobeyed her parents". Keeping in mind that the spider was once a human, stirred up the emotions of empathy from the other humans. Unlike the spider, the angel was not once a human but rather a conceit figure without any "truth" of "fearful lesson" which in result was not able to stir up any kind of empathy from the humans even if the angel was the one living in such poor conditions; the chicken coop. Marquez analysis's the level of treatment between the angel and the spider by using "human truth" and "fearful lesson" which was "bound to defeat" the "haughty angel who is scarcely deigned to look at mortals". Picking out the different treatments, Marquez shows how the angel is no exception when it comes to stirring human empathy. Proven from one of the evidences, even if the angel is living in a much more poorer condition than the spider, the latter gains more authority from the humans as it talks about it's tragic incident. This proves that illusional figures should not get in contact with humans as it obliterates the initial interpretation of illusional figures and gets easily overlooked by the stirring emotions.

The story ends with the angel looking like "an imaginary dot on the horizon of the sea". The angel is no longer in the human world turning the lives of the couple back to its original state. Although the angel left, the initial image of the angel has already been destroyed. The description of the polar angel and the initial angel and being disdained by human emotions by comparing two different variables with the spider and the angel has marked the end of illusional figures. Therefore, leaving illusional beings alone and letting humans presume anything illusional will help the reconstruction of illusional beings and help the human stay pure and loyal to them.

Its not too late

If I started crying behind you,
would you hear my quiet mumbles?

If I started walking away from you
would you have bothered to stop me?

When I had to cry,
I cried infront of my phone.

When I had to have comfort,
I stood inside the bathroom tolls.

When I needed someone to share my happiness with,
you were away.
Gaming inside the dark smoke-covered room.
Kissing a random girl
whom you met on the streets.

Where is your old self?
You used to notice me cry,
you used to grab me in the hand,
and embrace me until my tears died out.
You used to laugh along with me,
Making time for just the two of us to laugh and cry all day.

Is it because you found out Im different from the rest?
If you found out that
you were my cause of the indifference,
Would you have noticed the tears the slowly sled down?
Would you wipe it off like you used too?