p.o.e.m.s

pest

2008-09-05T11:50:00.000+08:00

I saw him
from the corner of my eye,
flitting this way
and that way,
scampering on its tiny
disgusting feet.
My arm reached out
quickly
for the nearest thing
(last Saturday's Classified)
and then
in one decisive
SWAT
... he died.

-------- circa December 2006.

The Truth of the Matter

2008-09-05T11:47:00.000+08:00

I am here,
and You are there,
and this great chasm between us
is all that exists
in this reality.

That is the truth of the matter,
the very real actuality --
just two fools looking
everywhere else but
at each other.

For a little while I tried
to shout and scream at you --
"Look here!" -- I wanted to say.
But when I opened my mouth, my vocal chords
constrict
and nothing,
nothing,
comes out
but just hot, stale, air.

So maybe you did turn
and glanced my way
but the glare of the sun
blinded my sight and I didn't notice
those precious,
precious seconds.
And maybe you did
call back from there across
the void
but I was lost in the chase
of my own thoughts.
Am lost.

And I thought --
I am here,
and You are there,
and this great chasm between us
is the reality.

---- circa 20th April 2008

The Cupboard

2006-12-06T03:37:00.001+08:00

Opening these old plywood doors
is like stepping --
into a time machine -- and stepping
into a past when you were still around;
everyday, shuttling from home to work, and home again,
on your beloved green Vespa;
and Saturday nights, in front of the TV,
in one of your old sarongs, watching
British Bulldog and Undertaker beat the crap
out of each other.

Now, congealed dust coat the surface of your things
(which have hardly been touched eversince you left)
and the saturated reek of mothballs and stale minyak attar
stubbornly fill this confined space,
making my nose twitch and my eyes
water.

Mom says, I should take
some of your clothes and use them,
but how could I --
Wear shirts, tinged with yellow from long un-use, and pants,
at least two sizes too small?
These dated habiliments -- and many others -- I can only
fold away
and put away into boxes,
for storage in a corner of the room, where they can
be conveniently Forgotten.

So heavy, these hands, as I run them over
your old socks -- their elastic long gone -- and your
precious few baju kurungs;
But heavier still is the heart.
Each garment that I touch
invokes a slice of memory -- Memory after memory,
re-lived, and then
packed and stacked on top of each other.
No wonder, that it took some years before
someone went around to do this. . .

Make way! Make way for those still living!
Someone else's things will be placed here tomorrow --
here, behind these old plywood doors --
because Life goes on, and all that jazz.

-- circa Oct. 2006

Noise

2006-07-02T02:05:00.000+08:00

There was a man who mumbles.
I didn't understand his words -- His words like someone
trying to speak underwater.
Shuffling along in his old, beat-up sandals,
piss-stained khakis and jolly, red polo-shirt
-- embellished with yesterday's dessert,
reeking of stale beer and ciggarettes ---
greasy hair streaked with grey,
wrinkles deepened by coarse dirt,
sagging shoulders and lost, shifty eyes --
Like some mindless child left behind by mistake.

Meaninglessly
muttering, muttering and muttering --
And sometimes at you, he would point, the way you'd point
at a passing butterfly or at unlaced laces.
But people think it best to ignore him,
ignore him, ignore him --
this overgrown stray of the coffeeshop.
Ignore the fact that he was Someone once.
Someone's brother? -- Father? -- Husband?

From time to time, he would stare
at the bright colors of the hanging TV
and exclaim excitedly in gibberish before continuing
with his mad tawaf around the tables --
and all the while --
muttering, muttering and muttering
secrets from his secret world --
And the rest is just
Noise.

----- circa April 15, 2006

On a turquoise cloud

2006-04-10T15:59:00.000+08:00

How nice to be floating
up there, somewhere --
unsullied by the stain of petty desires,
or the mud and grime of earthly constructs --
Bobbing along to the soundtrack of lyres,
Dido-esque muzak, or perhaps something inbetween.
Unburdened by existentialist ideas,
or the philosophies of Socrates, Plato, Confucius,
Ghandhi, Teresa, Lennon, Plath, Keats --
Just a bunch of dead people,
and those not dead are tiny moving black specks below.

How nice to be breathing
thin, but clean, air --
no noxious fumes to char the lungs
and choke your bronchioles --
Bobbing along to the melody, sweetly sung,
of tranquil skies, and lazy ships upon sun-drenched seas --
Up there, somewhere...
on a turquoise cloud.

---- circa 5th August 2005

By the side of the road

2006-04-10T15:49:00.000+08:00

A pair of lovers by the side of the road –
Contorted faces shooting accusatory looks,
Distorted voices – hoarse and cracked –
And the ground beneath, seemingly shook.

The Hondas, the Mercs, and the cabs that zoomed past
Provided the floodlights for their little show.
The Inquisitive eyes of strangers behind plexiglass windows,
Were the fleeting audience – spectators on the go.

A careless word dropped along the way,
An inflammatory remark thrown into the winds,
A pointing finger casting a spell of hate,
Like starting a wild bushfire with a burning splint.

I turned to flee from the flames and crossed
And heard next – the screaming of tires –
A loud bang – and then a blankness – a stillness –
And I was staring up, at the black skies –

At the spinning streetlights, and glaring headlights.
I wondered, "Will they see it before it's all too late? –
This pair of lovers by the side of the road –
That anger only begets anger begets rage begets hate?"

---- 22 July 2005

In waves this engulfing darkness hits

2006-04-10T15:46:00.000+08:00

In waves this engulfing darkness hits
the fragile consciousness
and the heart starts
flailing madly against the rushing tide.
Nothing telling breaks
the impassive façade
except the glistening eyes
and a blinking back
of that single tear of anguish (or fear?).

The rain had forewarned this
deluge, but the Sun had turned his face away –
For who wants to be the herald
of such dire circumstance?
And now the looming gloom that threatens
to settle across the horizons,
encroaches upon sight and foresight –
Like awaking from a lush dream and plunging straight
into the blackest of seas.

---- circa 20th October 2005

The more I stumble after Time

2006-04-10T15:45:00.000+08:00

The more I stumble after Time,
The faster it scampers away from me --
Like an elusive imp that teases,
And drains all my mortal energy.

Sliding this way and that way,
Slipping into corners and out --
Streaking between my lumbering fingers
During protracted moments of doubt.

It sneaks up from behind
With much stealth, cunning, and sly --
And then with a bang and a jolt,
A phase of a life has passed you by...

--- circa 18th Oct 2005

Lament

2005-07-17T02:35:00.000+08:00

The Prospect of losing a piece of
your Heart is realizing the world is caving in
With all of you underneath and
Everything else –– on top and above –– tumbling.

Feel the ground heave and shake
With the urgency of your weeping –– And the rain
In sheets should pour –– nay, Tear! –– down
The Heavens and bludgeon away the pain.

But forsooth! –– The earth silently revolves
And the storm no more potent than yester’s shower ––
There are no thunderclaps nor lightning ––
Nor the night is much blacker.

So who hears the screaming of your little Heart
Being wrenched –– bit by microscopic bit –– apart?

---- 11th May, 2005.

I Dug Myself A Grave...

2005-07-17T02:33:00.000+08:00

I dug myself a grave and crawled inside –
To Die – Or so I thought –
then I changed my mind but found I couldn’t
climb out of this tomb I wrought.

The musky scent of damp earth
Stung my nostrils raw.
I cried out – but sputtered sand and dirt –
And half-heartedly, at the muddy walls I clawed.

I heard the flames down below –
Crackling at the pit –
Welcoming those who deserve to burn,
Whose lives have turned to shit.

With fear my brittle body shook
yet for you I’d manage a little smile;
With wry amusement I’d say to you –
"I’ve been here for quite a while."

---- circa May 09, 2005

The Dreame

2005-03-13T03:26:00.000+08:00

I dreamt
I was taking pictures of the sky --
I saw marbled clouds
stretched from horizon to horizon;
a glorious expanse of whitish tints and hues,
of tiny specks of azure, cobalt and other blues.
And through my lens, at the centre of my vision,
a round pool of violet framed
and the smaller circle within, with its rays soft and tamed,
was the Sun.

An angel’s halo to me it seemed
Before a shape fell within ‘said pool --
The shape that lingered,
Of a plane, a Thunderbird of sorts,
From some Anderson puppetry show, gleamed.
Then the shape transfigured,
And it was a hawk with wings spread -- wings
Upon the sky -- a soaring black.

And then…
I woke up.

---- circa 26 February 2005

There Is Something Hostile About The Entering...

2005-03-13T03:18:00.000+08:00

There is something hostile about the entering –
the cold air blasting in greeting
when the doors slide open to let the hundreds in,
beep-beeping at every stop
with tireless unfailing;
and the many nameless faces –
cold and expressionless – save for the tired creases
the morning sun has yet to iron out.

Some nodding off in corners; others seemingly immersed
in their Streats or Today,
or the current bestseller from Borders;
and from some obscure spot, you hear
the faint harmonies of someone’s digital player
before the din of the rails
as the train enters its subterranean route
drowns it (and your thoughts) out.

What’s so good to be part of the hundreds
that get off at Tanjong Pagar, Raffles Place, or Novena –
coming up from the ground,
from multiple exits and across the streets,
rushing into crowded passageways,
into crowded entrances and crowded lifts
to get to their fluorescent-lit office spaces
with partitions to shut them out

of the hundreds everywhere else,
on the same floor, in the same high-rise building
who will crowd the same cafeteria somewhere
or other eateries across the square –
and the only thing to look forward to
is when you’re back in the lifts and in the streets,
into the crowded buses and crowded trains,
back to the place
where you started out?

---- circa 10th July 2004.

The Rope Trick

2005-03-13T03:15:00.000+08:00

Either he has grown weary of his circus act;
Or that he has reached the end of his rope.
So perhaps there is no more vertical climb to make,
no more tricks for his audience
who feeds on his Hope.

The magic hour has ceased suddenly
And the glamour that has all men beguiled
Falls away like the guises at a cheap masquerade,
Revealing the truth beneath
his ornamental smile.

Maybe he knows his game is up
And to climb downwards, he does not dare.
Thus seeing no more amusement, the impatient
Crowd disperses; leaving him
Suspended,
In mid-air.

---- 5th june 2004.

I have heard all...

2005-03-13T03:07:00.000+08:00

I have heard all there is for you to say
Why must you reiterate yourself this way?
No accusation, I have not yet heard ----
Your droning voice is just another provocation.

I have no words of my own save these
Which I write in riddles and fragmented sentences.
Don't rattle off the "sacrifices" you've made
In the name of that "L" word you always mention.

Do not talk to me of the emptiness that fills
The very marrow of your existence ----
Do not list me all the mitigating circumstances
And then beseech me for forgiveness.

I grow weary of your conversations;
The relentless questionings and allegations ----
Could I shut them out as I shut the door?
And never have to pay heed to them anymore?

Do not ask me what is wrong with me ----
My mental soundness is a constant subject for self-dialysis.
Perhaps you could offer some sort of prescription
After you're done with all your exhortations?

But no, do not think of me at all ----
It'll only be a waste of your precious time.
Do not consider me on your schedule
For I've long ago struck you off mine!

---- circa 22 Jan 2004

A Letter to a Departed

2005-03-13T03:01:00.000+08:00

I remember how your skin felt
as cold and hostile as marble
as I pressed my lips against your rigid forehead.

I remember the scented flowers
strewn across the floor where they laid you,
and you, were wrapped in sheets, pure and white as fresh snow.

I remember the brown earth and mud
that swallowed you... and thus you could not witness
the poignant beauty of the setting sun that ornamented
the sky on that sacred Friday.

Such a shame ---
that no more mortal suns shall you see; No more moons.
And we who are left behind,
have only fallible memories that dull with the years
and photographs in battered albums
as testament of your existence.

And now in feeble words
I try to frame these last remnants of a dream,
envisioned long ago, into an elegy ---
but so disjointed and garbled like puzzle pieces
that refuse to fit,
these fragments that resist my taming.

Hence, 'tis not my intention
to push blame,
but Time is the thief who has stolen from me
the clarity of my memory.

---- circa 10th November 2003.

Fly to Neverland

2005-03-13T02:58:00.000+08:00

I don't want to see another tomorrow.
I don't want to stay here for one more day.
Let me fade away with the darkness
and crumble instantly
Like shattered clay.

Or would you have me leap from my fourth-storey window
and fly to Neverland
where the lostboys are at play?

Help me to listen to what my heart is whispering;
I can't seem to hear.
The silence of the night is so deafening
and the whirring fan in my lonely room
is spelling out my imminent doom;

telling me that if I leap from my fourth-storey window
I won't have to stay here for one more day,
and I would fly off to Neverland
where the lostboys are at play.

---- circa 8th November 2003.

in the eye of a storm

2005-03-13T02:53:00.000+08:00

She walks on tired feet, dragging along
a rusty cart that creaks.
Old cardboard boxes stacked in a heap
and aluminum cans that fill a red polythene bag --
These are her daily wares for all the world to see.
What care she --
even if her goods sell cheap?
There is no mobile bill to pay for;
What is Zara to her?
Or Goldenvillage or Swenson's or Carrefour?
A hole or two (or three or four) on her ragged habiliments
is not considered much of an impediment.
She stops at every garbage bin on the pavement
and unperturbed by the stares from passing teens
brought up with cable TV and the internet
and coffee bean ice-blended on weekends,
she reaches inside with her emaciated fingers.
And I wonder --
did her heart or mind ever linger
over her own unfortunate circumstance?

And she walks with tired feet, dragging along
a rusty cart that creaks.
At a snail's pace she moves through the throng,
oblivious to the bustle of the traffic and pedestrians.
This bent, haggard object of pity;
what care she --
even if in the eye of a storm?

---- circa 15th october 2003.

prayer for the faithless

2005-03-13T02:50:00.000+08:00

I am my own prisoner
But I know not where I hid the key
Perhaps I've discarded it down the rubbish chute --
Along with the rest of me.

These chains that bind me to this void
That I wake up to everyday
Hold me fast, unflinching,cold and cruel
'til I can't spirit myself away.

But then how could I
When all might and main have been cast aside?
I'd rather lie catatonic on my bed
Then take sprightly leaps with arms open wide.

So I am my own prisoner
With nary a care where I misplaced the key.
But perhaps You could help me recover it --
Along with the rest of me.

---- circa 11th October 2003.

the sound of dripping water

2005-03-13T01:42:00.000+08:00

The sound of dripping water
Outside
is driving me insane.

Would God then spare me no respite?
Even in the late hours of the night,
must He so interrupt my thoughts in spite?

But alas
the dawn draws nearer
And I am not one step closer to being saner
Than before.

And
as the night comes to a close, I wonder
why in daytime
the sound of dripping water
Outside
never drove me insane.

---- 17th September 2003.

there is no hell

2005-03-13T01:39:00.000+08:00

There is no hell but I am the greater evil,
I am the darkest pit,
I am the fire.
I am the siren song that saps your mortal will
I am the curse, the monster,
and the destroyer.

I am the slayer who thinks he has won,
I am the Black Death,
I am the Reaper.
I trample the tragic, the tattered, the torn,
Wreak the dreamer
and the foolish believer.

I am the questioned but not the answer,
I am the silent flame,
the mutable fire.
I burn with a touch; I scorch and sear
Yet,
I am my own death,
And funeral pyre.

---- 19th August 2003.

evanescence

2005-03-13T01:37:00.000+08:00

But what right has even the smallest of mosquitoes to live;
2 hours, 2 days or 2 weeks?
Could it fly beyond its homely flowerpot
Before the arachnid ties it up in a knot?
Or could it buzz just above your delectable skin
And then, end up in a horrid splat like the rest of its pesky kin?

And thus our Fates perchance may be; No matter
young, old, strong or weak.
Could you live to see the next summer’s day
Before He, who gives, takes it all away?
Or is across the road your final destination
And have you courage enough to face your own evanescence?

---- circa 13th August 2003.

Song of Myself

2004-07-13T00:44:00.000+08:00

You tell me you know me --
The way the cogs and the wheels turn in my head --
When at night, I toss and turn in bed
Do you know what makes me sweat in my sleep?
Do you know the secret fears I keep?
You claim you know me
But I don’t even know myself.

If I gaze upon my reflection
Who or what do you think I’ll see?
Imperfection -- staring back and taunting me?
Is there more to it than meets the eye?
What demons raging within can you espy?
I demand that you tell me!
Because I need to know myself!

But I know you! I know your kind!
The kind that dragged me down into the depths of the ocean
With your pretty words
And your needs.
I was trying to reach the surface -- my lungs were bursting --
But you threw me an anchor
instead of a float.
And I sunk even further… Further and further.
And then I drowned.

Maybe that’s how it happened.
Though full of jubilation was I at my own demise,
Mournful, were the other parts of me that survived.
But that’s how the world spins upon its axle --
Ordinary people meet tragic ends in this fable.
“Disillusioned!” you tell me.
But still I sing this song of myself.

So tell me you know me
And I will sing to you a different tune and melody --
Of truths and untruths in discordant harmony.
My reflection is what I envision
Not the familiar figure that you imagined.
You may think you know me
When I’m not so certain myself…
Yet I will go on singing… this Song of Myself

Do You Still Remember? (Sonnet)

2004-07-13T00:41:00.000+08:00

Do you still remember that night when we first met?
I was half-awake, half asleep --
Too long ago this dream I dreamed; the memory too far, too deep.
Was the prussian sky littered with stars that night?
And did Orion’s belt shine and gleam with mischievous delight?
Did you feel the rumbling of the trains beneath our feet?
Or was it just the tremors of my racing heartbeat?

The August moon might be laughing when Cupid let his arrow fly
But I was half-awake, half asleep --
Too cunningly he planned, too well hid; his shot had pierced me deep.
If now you recall, did u foresee all this from the start?
Or were you a victim too? Did Cupid prey upon your unsuspecting heart?
Yet how could I deny what the Fates had conspired for me
And in this half-dreaming, half-waking -- I submit to my destiny.

The Unbending Road

2004-07-13T00:27:00.000+08:00

Sometimes the road seems straight and unbending.
Your horizons are clear; your eyes see lands beyond extending.
But where is the path now,
Where are the dreams that had you moving ―
Onward and forward through life’s journey, never-ending?

If only we could walk together, one step at a time.
If only our steps could never go out of rhythm and out of rhyme.
But we can only wonder how
We had committed such a foolish crime
And Fate has caught us, stealing moments from Time.

But what moments we had, do you still remember?
How the hours seem to fly whenever we are together?
But all we are left with now
Are memories to cherish and to savor.
Each instant with you is a precious pearl, to treasure forever.

Sometimes the road seems straight and unbending.
The conclusion is clear; this was never a race we would be winning.
But I know better now ―
The only kind of Happiness worth chasing
Lies not in the distance, but in the moments we were traveling.

Chasing Horizons

2004-06-08T07:30:00.000+08:00

The blind man is standing there, playing his instrument.
Does he not see?
The men accoutered in their sharp, snazzy suits --
Their black asian hair streaked with bronze or blonde
Or red or mahogany or blue,
Slicked back with designer gel to last the entire day --
How, from him, they contrived to turn their gaze away
By looking ahead at the looming passage of the underpass
Or at the flashy ads that interchange behind the glass.
Their chins up high, briskly walking;
Does he not see they could just be pretending?
Or are they really chasing their horizons -- relentlessly pursuing
The wrong dreams, the wrong things?
Oh! But he is blind!

These slit-eyed men in their sharp, snazzy suits;
Do they not see?
There is no need to divert their glances away from him.
For his blank eyes cannot possibly judge or be prejudiced
Against people he cannot possibly see.
If he cannot look into the distance, what horizons can he pursue?
But the hope that some people with empathy -- or a dollar or two --
Would stop and listen to his (sometimes tuneless) tired song.
Is that too much to ask for? Is that wrong?
His chin up high, bravely waiting;
Do they not see, his life is still worth living?
His limited boundaries are not his undoing.
He isn't begging for fancy things.
Or are they also blind?

The blind man has stopped playing his instrument.
His song has ended.
But the men in their sharp, snazzy suits are briskly walking --
Chasing their horizons.

The Looking Glass

2004-06-07T00:40:00.000+08:00

Throw down your mantle of pride and discard your armor of vanity
Come with me and look into the looking glass,
Let me tell you what I see.

I see a boy, standing there, where your reflection should be.
His eyes agleam with bold audacity,
Proud and erect, his stance forbids sympathy.
With shades on head that bespeaks of “cool” fashion,
His swaggered walk and baritone draw much attention.
But I know him, this boy,
Whose impish, careless ways sometimes hover on the brink of tyranny;
There is something fragile concealed beneath his forced dignity.
What does he try (in vain) to hide?
His secret fears, deep inside?
Peer now into the looking glass ― the façade is breaking.
Now stands a lost orphan.
Do you know him?

Do you know this boy standing where your reflection should be?
His heart hungry for human affection,
Alone and afraid, his dreams are often in confusion.
Sometimes he could do nothing but watch as life passes him by
Yet at other times he is running and his hopes are flying high.
So you know this boy;
There are too many clues here for you to remain ignorant.
But do you concede these things that I have made apparent?
Are these untruths you can’t abide?
Or plain facts you can no longer hide?
Step back from the looking glass ― the image is fading.
Now stands someone else.
You are him.

Equip now yourself with compassion replete with empathy.
Come bring me to the looking glass
Tell me what you see.

Where Cruel Winter Winds Blow

2004-06-03T07:25:00.000+08:00

I walk along the silver streets where the aspen leaves are falling.
In the rain the lamplights cast a warm and misty glow.
But these familiar things I notice not, nor where-to I am heading;
For in my heart lies a barren land where cruel winter winds blow.

In my dreams of yesterday, blooms a memory like a newborn rose.
There I held my lover's hand in ramblings under a moonlit sky.
Sweet harmonies graced the air in this land my mind hath froze.
But like all the flowers I've ever known, I'll watch this rose wither and die.

Yet still I hold my breath when the vision slips into my mind, unintended --
Of a shy, stolen kiss on upturned cheek, and a warm, tender embrace.
And there in the darkness of the night, my heart suddenly flies unshackled.
And in the wayside trees the resting raindrops glow like hidden stars amazed.

Oh how briefly, how soon, must this heart once more return to its barred home;
Once more chained by loops of loneliness, its wings clipped and shorn.
How it hurts, to love one with all your might but know that your heart stands alone;
To have your dreams and hopes denied, cast aside, ripped and torn.

Where do these dead dreams go; in what never-land, will their souls reside --
Once they vanish from your hand like snow melted by sunlight?
Is it to where discarded reveries hang thick and empty castles on clouds abide?
Before, aglitter with hope and promise; now, filled with despair and blight?

The world goes on turning, oblivious to the tragedies of my life.
It makes each passing day, each waking moment, a pain I must surpass.
But how do broken hearts heal? How do broken hearts survive?
Maybe they only mend imperfectly -- like pieces of shattered glass.

So now I walk these streets again where the aspen leaves are falling.
In the rain the lamplights cast a warm and misty glow.
But these familiar things I care not, nor where-to I am going;
For my lonely heart, shall always be where cruel winter winds blow.

Song For A Beggar Boy

2004-06-03T07:21:00.000+08:00

Sleep away, sleep away my little beggar boy;
Forget all your worries and your woes.
In deepest slumber may you find the joy
You sorely miss in your waking hours.

Dream away, dream away, my little one;
Sweet and tender may your idle visions be.
Neither cruel winters nor blistering sun,
Will now mar the dreams you dare to dream.

In dreaming you shall escape the storms that rage around you,
But you fly, unshackled, leaving the chains of life behind you.
So you fly…

Fly away, fly away, my little orphan child,
In the bitter frost, your sorrows will end.
But in spirit you shall roam free and wild --
Safe at last in His immortal hand.

Sheer Perfection

2004-06-03T07:16:00.000+08:00

You didn't come to me reluctant or protesting
But for a moment I was sure;
That you arrived from that world where I go adreaming.
For you're simply more than innocence personified
Should I begin to trust you? -- I can't decide.

How deep is this abyss into which I'm falling?
And for a moment I was sure;
That this endless drop is all my own undoing
Yet I don't want it any other way,
I surrender to the pulling gravity -- come what may!

For you're like an oasis in a desert that turn to sand --
A vision though unreal but I must follow.
And I'll rejoice in your brief but fiery touch that marks me like a brand
And sets my heart aflame,
So how can I stay the same?
It's your sheer perfection that's to blame.

You may be the object of my own creative imagining,
But if you're real then this I'm sure;
That in my life, anything this good is never everlasting.
You may even say you want me now but I know,
That words are merely words; they come and go.

For you're like far-off mountains that turn to clouds --
A vision here today but gone tomorrow.
All my loneliness, hopelessness and grief that cling to me like shrouds,
Disappear as I decide --
I shall never be denied,
Your sheer perfection by my side.

Hope

2004-06-03T07:14:00.000+08:00

Lost I was in desolate hills with dark, brooding clouds
Overhead casting hostile shadows across once-familiar ground.
Grief and despair were my company as like shrouds,
they clung to me unrelenting, sending my senses whirling around.

Alone I was as I stumbled through the creeping undergrowth
And cruel branches scratched my exposed limbs, unforgiving.
Whichever way I turn, I was ill-met… oh how loathe
The glaring darkness, the looming quiet in my ears ascreaming.

And on my knees, I cried for the opportunities that passed me by.
I cried for Sleep to carry me in His arms and take me to Eternal Peace.
And with tear-stained face upturned to the overcast sky,
I cried for the one merciful enough to grant my tribulations a surcease.

But before my soul could surrender to Grief and Despair, the heavens
parted and a single, prism of undiluted light was shining,
illuminating a lone figure who stood before me in majestic silence.
And she, with ineffable calm and steadfast voice, was speaking
"I am the one you are seeking,"
"I am Hope."

What Goes On In My Room While I'm Asleep?

2004-06-03T04:48:00.000+08:00

What goes on in my room while I'm asleep?
What scheming devils lurk in the dusty corners,
While I lay trembling beneath the covers?
Terrible monsters that live in the shadows,
Or creepy fiends, straight from the gallows?
What, pray tell,
What goes on in my room while I'm asleep?

What will I find in my room when I awake?
A snapping alligator beneath my bed?
Or shrieking bats right over my head?
From my open window, maybe I'd see
A ravenous vampire just eyeing to eat me?
What, oh what,
What will I find in my room when I awake?

What manner of beasts shall I see
In my closet (sniggering at me)?
Do ghosts and ghouls and demons galore
Await for me behind my door?
Should I pretend and feign ignorance?
Could these monsters see
Beneath my fake countenance?

On the other hand,
Maybe it's better if I don't know
What goes on in my room while I’m asleep...