The box made of
thin tree-meat walls,
closed by a
curtain door,
sealed with
hole-filled, rusted
roof, again
sinks under the
merciless river
overflow, yet
the eight hearts
it has been carrying
will remain afloat—
with warm love,
with fearless faith,
with ceaseless hope.
—
Binded but never blinded collection
Of letter conniving to form words
Of timeless wisdom freeing up minds
Kept inside the dark room of ignorance.
—
While I was walking home,
someone called my name.
A genderless body
wearing a sunny smile,
a mist-kissed scent,
and a sunset orange glow.
“Hello, my name is love.
I know I might be hard.
But would you come
with me, tonight?”
Before my surprised tongue
could let a word roll out,
another face came,
wearing the blanket of
a pitch black night,
and the smoke of
a melting rubber
on its upward flight.
“Hey, I am hate.
No, don’t hesitate.
I am an easier
company, mate.”
My unsure feet
step back, one…
and then two…
Inhale and exhale,
my choice is due.
I’d rather be fried
under a sun angry
with love,
than sip
whiskey under
a calm moon
without love.
—
08.03.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
For dVerse Unseen Things.
No apologies, no regrets, not a single sorry, from the old mouth of the last man standing from the crew who ended the second world war.
Japan started the conflict, that was how the US closed it— with two exploding periods. Periods that bent the knees of the Land of the Rising Sun. Periods that marked how ending wars could be done.
Fading is the warning of the first nuke’s gravity. There might be more to come, oh, we’ll see. From one bloodshed to another, I wonder when will human lives weigh more than a bloody war.
A fragile new bud
tries to crack leftover snow—
men kill to survive.
—
One…
two…
three…
what is there
for you to see?
Will there be
a bubbly bee—
bringer of
positivity,
yet with bite,
oh, so feisty.
Four…
five…
six…
what is there
for you to seek?
Is there a
bullet-size hole
where some light
will somehow leak—
to free the words
you cannot speak?
Seven…
eight…
nine…
Moving forward
is divine; giving up
is a landmine.
Once you step
on it— boom!
…
…
…
All is gone.
Your remnants
will then
go back to one.
—
Sshhh…
I am confessing.
I am louder when
my mouth is locked,
when my tongue
is still and numb—
a willing prisoner
inside the jail of
sharp, tough teeth
guarded by a pair
of soft, stubborn lips
firm to never let
a single word escape.
Ssshhh…
I am confessing.
My throat and
vocal chord are as
parched as Sahara
in blazing September,
yet I need not
any monsoon rain.
This pen will carry
the voice unheard and hiding.
Never will it dry even when
no one’s listening.
Ssshhh…
I am confessing.
Read. Don’t listen.
—
Thin but brave bones
bending but seldom
or just sometimes breaking.
With muscles built
for exercise— gripping,
typing, or clenching.
The puzzle of fingers
and palms, I thought
need not completing.
Until my right had
felt your left—
oh, this is what
complete means.
—
Surrender to
the ferocious
waves of life’s
twists and turns.
Learn to paddle
in calm and chaos,
for the sea won’t
get any kinder,
you have to be
a better swimmer.
—
Forgive me, my creator
but I feel you are a traitor,
for painting me with friendly color
and gifting me with healing odor,
but letting me be a protector
of a poisonous aggressor.
In this human court
judging me physically,
my defense is my fragrant grace,
and my pale petals’ serenity,
yet the prosecution argues
I am a symbol of distrust only—
my soft stalks cloaked in fallacy
is the home of fangs so deadly.
In between this irony,
who am I really?
I guess you have to tell me,
your humans are too divided,
I can’t trust them, I’m sorry.
—
Clothed pair of soles
dressed in faux leather top
and synthetic rubber pants,
clanking, clanking,
against the cobbled,
sometimes cemented
concrete jungle paths,
dreams to be
bare and naked
against the foliage
of the fallen petals
of Autumn trees,
ready and brave
to be pricked with
the crisp and thin
sun-dried twigs,
for the slave feet of the city
yearns to be the lost queen
of the wild—
the sanctuary
of the soul’s respite.
—
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