My Theology.

I believe in an attentive ear that seeks the somber sound of crying in a dark and sightless night. The truth in hearing and believing a life beyond one’s own beating heart is a religion of its own. If faith is mandatory, I’d rather believe in the pensive mind that yearns for justice; a law not written by man, but inherited millennia ago from the sky.

As you believe in God, I believe in a love for life so strong that no small flower be set to a flame. My deity is the beauty of an unkempt green valley, and the dandelion seeds that form clouds upon the horizon in a hot summer gust. As you believe in angels, I believe in the mindless creatures that roam the world with hope in their hearts of falling in love – those silly things are so romantic, they brim with more hope than could ever be discovered in a mine filled with diamonds.

Your belief in heaven is comparable to my belief of a sunny afternoon under a pale blue sky, somewhere far away from the city where I can hear the cicadas and the bullfrogs. There are no gates here, just a noisy silence that raptures me in a way that no psalm ever has. I can read catharsis from the cumulus clouds, or hear a chorus in the little things that live in the loam. What we have in common? We both call our heaven our home.

But what about hell? Well, I don’t believe that exists as long as there is another day. For there are days, nights, weeks and months that I lie awake with teary eyes. There are days that I wish I could simply stop my heart-beat on demand. The heat under my skin is comparable to the literature that describes the underworld, I suppose, when I feel this insatiable need for something, for anything to bring a chill to my fiery anger, or my branding sorrow.

Although I know that it won’t be for ever. Each time I watch the clock, and the arrow hits one minute prior midnight, I know that shortly there will be another day. As the seasons shift their way around the cyclical conundrum that life is made of, one spring day I’ll see my deity, one summer day I’ll fill my heart with hope.

Even in the season of the dead things, the fallen leaves remind me of the hearth of a cozy home. Though I may brood alone, I know that 11:59 is the truest worship time. Idle and fatigued I bide the time, the sixty seconds that always drags my atheist heart out and gives it a moment to practice religion – one second at a time.

Lovesick Night

Like a star with its flashing white light, I hope to catch your eyes tonight

The euphoric feel and neurotic pulses will enable the both of us to take flight

Like a star in the deepest satin sky, I hope to draw your sight

I long to be that special star, the only one you see at night

Like a drop of water in the rolling ocean, there are billions of me surrounding you

Like a grain of sand on an ivory coast, there’s not one grain that you love the most

Like a beautiful swan on a still warm lake, I need your admiring gaze as mine to take

Like a porcelain dish from an antique store, cherish me and never break me; simply covet and adore

Like a thorn in a blooming rose bush, I draw blood at the slightest touch

Lend me your curious fingers, and find the soft spots that make me blush

Like a spark on a fading ember, I need to live in your memory

Like a shooting star in a milky dusk, I want to be the one to whom your secrets you entrust

The only one, the special one, I want it to have much more than lust

Like a flower in a field of weeds, I hope for you to save me

From the roots that drag me down and anchor me – I know in your embrace I’m free

I hope to be the flower than you pick and take home, and plant in only the richest of loam

I want to be the chosen, the loveliest blossom that you hold.

Like a star in the midnight sky, there’s a million of me that will catch your eye

I hope you wish on the one that’s right;

Then I’ll believe in love tonight.

The Valley

No one search for me, for though I am lost I have no desire to be found again.

I long for the blaring sounds of cicadas over the overbearing silence in the dryness of the valley,

The rolling meadow with cascading blankets of green grass and yellow dandelions a map freckled in gold.

Wrapped in this dry and sweet-smelling blanket, my dreams of ebbing pain will never grow old,

They’ll only echo through satin blue dawn as loudly as the other sounds that never reach the air.

No one looks for me, no one knows I’m gone. Am I hiding, or have I been forgotten?

I don’t know; I don’t care.

There is nowhere else I’d rather go than this place so deep in my memories.

I can still hear the trickling of a stream over worn pebbles, I can still smell smoke so distantly.

As I tuck myself away in my warm reverie, I wait so patiently for the gold to turn to ivory.

The dandelions are so binary – white or yellow, I never witness them as both, though I delight at the tiny clouds.

Only in the brightest of the sun rays as the most ambitious seeds hop up and float away,

I hold my breath for the right one to wish upon beneath the blaring sun.

In burning heat and beading sweat, still so patient, I hold my breath.

This dream won’t last forever, but this memory will never fade as I remember my feet wade through the valley,

Time and time again, I’ll never forget about this place that I’m not sure I’ve ever been.

The way it holds me softly when the tears won’t leave my eyes, the way it holds me softly when I idly fantasize

Of somewhere that no one will ever find me, were they to even remember my face

And since no one looks for me, I can pretend that I don’t exist as I hold my flower and close my eyes to make my wish.

The sun hot on my face and glowing through my shut eyelids, I’ll make my wish.

And thus I release my breath, but it’s been so long since I inhaled… it’s been so long that I’ve been gone so far away –

I’ve forgotten what I hoped to wish!

So I watch the seeds drift off in a scattered cloud, into the pale forever blue in a quickly dispersing shroud

Next dream, they’ll bloom again and I can return once more to the valley in which I will never be found.

Within an Echo Chamber

A voice so small bounces off the walls

Little whispers, honest lies, I can’t quite hear them all

Gaps in transmission and drops in modulation

All I have are garbled murmurs

Bits and phrases I have my way with

I need you to say this

You’ll never change, you haven’t lied

But I need to be whole inside

You’ll change for me. You’ll be every thing I need

If I want to feel fully alive

That’s not what you said, but it’s in my head

Your voice making me sweat and shake

I need to hear it loud and clear

It’s only for my aching heart’s sake

Be you, but be true, and be only mine

And see me through the darkest of times

When I can’t hear, you disappear

Though you repeated yourself aloud

I did not hear you say good bye

I did not want to hear you say good bye.

Rainbow Rouse

Red lipstick makes you think I want you

I wear all black simply to daunt you

With pink flowers to awaken your gaze

And let you imagine my innocent days

Brown eyes to watch you wake

Under heavy lashes, to filter your face

Blue days in a cloudy haze

With white cotton clouds to give us shade

Yellow sun and silver moon

Mixed with the orange and violet late noon

Green grass after the storm

Reminds me that I have no need to mourn

Grey everything; a forecast forlorn

I can’t see your silhouette anymore

Just light and dark shadows in monochrome

And the glistening road where I seek my way home

All of the colors that I know

Couldn’t form a scene where I hold you close

In the damp air, a sunlit rainbow

Promised me the floodgates will close –

I’m still waiting.

 

 

 

 

Douse Me.

He once said to me:

“You’re like a fire – hard to hold close due to the heat of your flames

The ones you love end up scorched, and thus you flee in shame

But it’s evident that you were here, long after you are gone

The tell-tale trail of smoke lingers and the ashes are trailed along.”

I don’t intend to tend my embers, they spark themselves once I’m awake

They slowly kindle throughout the day and surround me in a steaming haze

I can’t see through the wispy curtain, I can’t comprehend the errs of my ways

All I see is red, vivid and growling through the darkest of days

I mourn for those I hurt – I swear!  I hope they do recover

But I beg for mercy under the heat, the sweat that drenches my covers

Every morning the yellow sun peaks over the lake my eyes are red with hate

I don’t want to live another day engulfed in these perpetual flames

Scorched and charred I crumble, ashes tossed into the air

Shrunken and crippled, there’s less of me and so much more of the terrible flare

Nothing will remain when I exhaust, nothing but the smoke and the haze

While I’m still here, I pray someone douse me

Much like my lost lovers, I despise the pain.

Moss on the Glass

An old dreary home, a homely abode

I sit in the rocking chair and glare at the clouds

I await the shower that will come cascading down

And rinse all the dust from the glass – at last

The thunder rumbles and rattles my heart

It bounces against these feeble ribs, as fragile as it is

Can it not break under the ivory cage? I almost wish it did

As it keeps throbbing in lament, it keeps on reaching for my grave

And I retreat beyond the door, the warped wood and oak grain

I watch behind the window pane, so solitary in my pain

The lightening dashes across the grey

And I see sparks in stolid dullness

Peaking through the crawling moss

As it conceals my window panes.

I call them hopeful and yet foolish, those wretched vines

I call them weeds and I call them lies

They seep into my tough stronghold

They seep their roots between my fingers’ hold

I want to watch the world go down in flames

And then be doused by rain

But the moss, it covers my window pane

I don’t want to hope, but it eases my pain.

Earthquakes!

Faces.

Bits of age old places; barbed wire fences in smiling braces.

Furrowed brows the farm-rows before the crops,

Teary eyes the waterfalls and then the sparse rain drops.

Earthquakes!

Hearts shudder and pound violently out of control.

Sparse flaws on the skin; soft little knolls,

Moon craters, crevices and sun-spot moles.

Folding ocean surface ripples, delicate creases and wrinkles.

Bright eyes, starry skies, glittery make up and colorful dyes,

Algae blooms’ impending doom and faint hair highlights – plant-derived.

Summer breezes sighs of delight, warm breathes and sun-bleached sights.

Earthquakes!

Panicked shaking, tsunami waves and crippling fright.

Morning dew on green grass blades, beads of sweat on blushing faces,

Bird songs echoing in the day, melodies repeated on radio stations.

Your smile: so eternal, eroded into the mountainous region.

Earthquakes….

My heart still tremors. Your smile remains after all of the seasons.

Things with Wings

 

These trumpeting geese wake me every day. Their deep voices carry in the foggy morning rain.

I ponder upon how it is that many things with wings found light ligaments in place of their feet:

A bat is just a rat that finally took flight to escape the plight of the destitute streets.

A caterpillar would be a worm, but at some point it learned that beauty could be found underground, or buried deep in a cocoon.

With silk woven without a loom the worm still weaves the softest cloth. So why do we think the butterfly is so much more beautiful than the moth?

Its dusty wings are dull and tattered like our neglected things atop our mantles, or the wardrobes’ cobweb-laden wedding gown

Left with whimsical memories of the freed doves – and the dove is just a pigeon that we love for her soft, white down.

But does the pigeon know that we see her as a clown? Why is she the pauper while her sister wears the crown?

And lastly, the crying girl who leans over her balcony finally dives into the sky with her good-byes damp on her pillowcase.

She didn’t fly then, but found her wings in the pile of things discarded from her room shortly after her guest-less wake.

Her body slumbered, forgotten, slowly sinking to the bottom of the geese’s’ foggy lake

Where the vultures can’t find her and feed down to her bones; where all of the things with wings can never travel, she rests alone.

But in the sky she’s learned to fly with the bats at night and the geese at dawn, and through the day all of the things with wings preen her feathers and sing her songs.

The same things who couldn’t grow wings carry on. Undaunted still, though not yet angels, they simply meander along.

A Wish on a Waning Moon

The softest of footsteps move down the hall, impossible for me to hear were it not for my vivid imagination. Curled up in satin sheets, daylight winks through the slanting blinds and stripes the bed with molten silver. Throughout the crack beneath the door, I spot your toes pause outside, your hand on the doorknob although the hinges hang open.

Why don’t you come inside?

My mind spins and my heart hammers until my stomach aches. How long do I have to wait? Time has me frozen here, my knuckles red from gripping the bed covers so tightly.

The door is open….

Yet the handle doesn’t twist. A shuffle against the dark wooden floor and I don’t see your shadow there anymore. I’d lift my head, but I’m paralyzed, still as stone in the crevice I’ve embedded into the mattress.

You don’t have to stay for long.

A cold sweat works up my face. I just need to move, just a little bit. To part my lips and cry for you to come back.

But I can’t….

I have no voice, I make no sound that your ears are capable of hearing. Is it because you don’t want to hear me? Because you don’t love me at all. I know this, but still, I’m warm and I have a beating heart. I bleed and I feel. Just tell me that it’ll be alright. Hold me one more time. Give me something to feel.

I fear that I’ve turned to stone, and time will no longer wake me in the morning. I’ll never move forward. I’ll never be somebody. I’ll never hope again.

The light through the sheer curtains pools onto the floor. Shadows move, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed. I’m a shattered doll. I’m a broken rose. I’m an eyesore.

In a world without warmth, I’m frozen still, too cold to move. The day is waiting for me, the sun fatigued, and yet I haven’t budged from my pillow. My skin is stuck to the cloth with tears like hot glue. My pained breaths echo through the room.

I just can’t move.

And until I do, I’ll bask in the rays of an eternal noon. The stars won’t come out to consider my fancies. My wishes float idly toward the ever waning moon.