Torn Pieces

Why when I am about finish my masterpiece
By patiently stitching back a torn portrait
One piece dear to me decides to detach?

Is this imperfect masterpiece worthwhile?
Should I throw it away and let it decompose?
Maybe then I can rework on my self-portrait?

Or maybe my energy is just better utilised
In signing songs to travel across the oceans –
Only sung to open the eyelids of free souls?

Maybe there the torn piece might value me?
Maybe then I will reunite with them again?
Yet, I wish the masterpiece finishes now.

Late Twenties

In my late twenties,
Between sad six
And sorrow seven,
Between essential eight
And noble nine,
I immersed myself in
An ocean of feelings,
I performed a somersault,
And I hit my head,
Slipped out of rhythm,
On indestructible rocks,
Then in a surreal coma,
Later, a patient marathon,
Survival of the fittest,
And I will always win,
Because here I am,
Still in my twenties.

Introversion

And here I thought Monday night
Would be deserted from socialising
Creatures, seeking a place of serenity,
A some sort of sanctuary, or an
Uninhabited temple far from
Civilisation, somewhere in the depths
Of endless oceans, or within the
Magnanimous dampened jungles,
Or even on the blazing sand dunes,
Albeit, this particular café had a
One-seated table-for-four in one of
Its corners, the most annoying thing
Was the high-pitched creatures, and
So, the night kept going even when
The longed sanctuary was nowhere
To be found, and lost was I amongst
These socialising extroverted creatures.

Ricochet My Love

The compass has shown a polar
Attraction and the eyes deceived
Me with a dazzling beauty as she
Lets the heart swim in endless
Oceans as the mind tries to listens
To an erudite conversation, though,
A foreigner that ignites my circle of
Life and rewinds the ageing self.
I miss her. All of her. Her all.
An infinite chain chained beyond
Infinity to never be unchained,
You could call it coincidence,
Or fate, or even a universal
Language coded as one of the
Laws of attraction to attract
Entities deemed to always repel.

Sigh.

A nature’s lesson for the wise man,
An educational essay about the
Damp soil’s ability to attract the
Roots of all beauty. Beauty – to her
And of her – accumulates in the
Eyes of my compass, the one to
Tests the maps of minds and the
Directions of hearts while the souls
Intertwine to form a melody to be
Sung by our garden’s nightingales;
A ritual in broad daylight for our
Eyes to see and never be deceived,
Again – I never spoke to her until
Today, until the length of this
Entry: an entry that doubts the
Ability of words to knock on the
Doors of her elegant, soft heart.

Sigh.