A pair of hands drawing the shape of your face
with silence and self-gratification
in the darkness
swearing there is no disgrace but an act of courage
in the thousand miles of lifeline condensed in a prayer
of juxtaposed itineraries
still learning to merge and wrap up this moment
in a surrendering yet hallow embrace
like a web of tenderness.
Lost inside chronology I cross the network of omens and grief
to surround the elusive territories of biblical relief
Where I can turn the other palm
instead of the overexposed cheek;
we are all God’s prodigal offspring:
our fingerprinted wishes stretching skyward
our judgmental stones hidden and ready to be cast
right or wrong, left or almost returned
both past and future are safe
as long as you don’t mix geometry and love
Remember to always tame the butterflies before a blind date
Keep them caged and chained for their own sake
From now on each field and hill and mountain will fit
if you unclench your fist and put your instincts to sleep
A holding hand must replace the caressing one
each path we climb, each cross we carry,
each tribute we look in the eye and dare
It’s all an atlas of anatomy ,
a spare affection legacy on auction sale
two complete strangers sharing a moment on a memory lane
Soon we’ll be cutting out each other’s faces in old scrapbooks
Relieved by the temporary intruder evictions
Hoping with all the foreseeable hostility
One can only nest inside
We shall not have to play within the same play
Again and again for the sake
of a solitary prophetic vibe.


Skeptical Notes

Death is not a discovery but an invention
A rejected apology and life…
Life is less than a gallery of self-made portraits.
To justify forgiveness …
people divide time into years, months and weeks
To deny their belief in space
people build boundaries between mine and yours
worship property and baptize stillborn words
To incriminate faith people write diaries
always about their other selves
never about who they pretend to be.
You can’t be missed unless you are completely gone
It’s a sad fact that oxygen is taken for granted
But its worth is no secret and no regret
they say we are either choosers or beggars
we can share a sunrise but not a sunset
burst into laughter or tears
monitor a sarcastic firework disaster
have our own names chosen and our own graves built
with dreams grown inside oysters
trapped inside the circle of guilt
According to fairytales
written by old children who won’t play
Today is a much younger tomorrow than yesterday.