lights dimmed, and toothbrush in hand,
i was alone and ready to slumber.
i was lonely; it was only october,
“will i really be okay ’til next september?”
loud noises seep in from the streets.
i peer out of the window to see:
the usual suspects –
half-sober students giddily making their way home,
some drunkards rowdy in their delirium;
loud shouting over phones;
and… the moon.
round and radiant and full of vigor.
i suddenly remembered it was mid-autumn.
for longer than a while, i gazed at the sky.
the moon waxed as my loneliness waned.
where wolves would howl, i smiled.
for i knew, on the other side of the world, back at home,
you were gazing at the same moon, just seven hours earlier.
i googled, ‘hand from fire’.
in the garden were placed pillars of flames,
and each flame made the last one appear tame.
one by one i believed they would consume me;
and so conjured a lie in foolish pyromancy –
‘perhaps it is my fate to embrace this blazing sea.’
but you in mercy unbeknownst extinguished them all.
and as i thrashed about lamenting my pain,
you ensured that not even an ember remained.
you set above me a long, healing rain,
and saw this feeble wretch retained.
now older, wiser, and mature,
i thank you.
the devil serves up a heady brew.
a couple of swigs and i’ve ‘thought it through.’
my eyes dim, i’m losing my cool;
the lines begin to blur – between false and true.
and in a while i wake up, hungover with rue.
i sobered up, with tears blue and a wounded heart.
i asked the lord if i may understand in time due:
my many miseries, both old and new,
the locusts’ years, and how they played their part.
and thus i prayed for the lord to chasten me;
when i am impudent to discipline me.
for though the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak,
and i, your child, am anything but meek.
so, father i pray for you to lay me low,
when i return to the old to rebuke me so.
hide me away whence the strong winds blow,
i plead to you, the shepherd of my soul.
life is fleeting, life is short,
but in you my soul found a place to hide.
whether in deed, in word, or in thought,
i pray thy grace in me abide.
i know not what you’re going through, or how to help you,
but i hope my little joys will yet draw a smile from you or two.
i googled: ‘tomato red’
keep being afraid
of the things you have done and said;
of their consequences, and of their weight.
sweet and lovely is the image you cherish to bed;
lingering vividly in your thoughts: the tomato, red.
but don’t let your mind wander too far ahead
when nothing has yet to even come to a head.
should it happen, give thanks to God’s appointed fate,
should it not, still give thanks – don’t hang low your head.
for the Lord knows what’s best for you.
as shown in all that is past, and in time, all that was once new.
He knows better every colour and every hue
of the heart and mind you always thought you knew.
who’s to say if the words too few
or the peaks and troughs you at times feel
are not but shards of the chalice He has planned for you?
“Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me:
nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.”
let be sober over sense of feeling, lest be blinded and not see;
let be loving, heart to feel, lest be selfish and come undone.
i googled: ‘mirror’.
it’s overdue – i have to ask you this,
and soon enough, so you will not regret.
what do you want?
you tell others this:
you like the philosophy of law;
the ideas behind it all:
how its very concept was birthed,
and what purpose it served;
how our forefathers saw it a necessity,
and what it has become in our society.
you ask if law should be subservient to man,
or doth it have a greater purpose to serve?
shall it be clay to pottery in our hands,
and shaped according to need across the lands?
or shall it be a bulwark against our own deviance,
as we slowly descend into decadence?
your answer is laid bare.
but you walk on, laissez faire.
‘what can i do?’
so, too, a thousand other kindred spirits.
i will not give answers to you,
but i will continue to probe you:
to have you in earnest thought,
to not walk out of a fight unfought.
what do you want?
an empty mirror, viewed directly, leaves a palpable sense of unease.
it’s probably because that is an impossible sight,
but perhaps, it is also because the thought of losing sight of ourselves scares us.
my mind’s a clump of words.
i keep count as i stutter;
how far apart are we in hertz?