Time flies. Christmas is once again approaching. Laden with new responsibilities.
Life is strange.
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The passing of an era It was the moment,The passing of an era by ~ybing
bleak, dull, damning
of truth
of lowly grades.
Heart weighed down
by heavy boulders of worry,
I hid in blankets of warm comfort,
light eluded me.
You shone a ray of hope,
in the imperfect building,
holes plastered over
by the perfect love poured out
to me.
Newly minted,
in raised hopes.
As I watched you turn into myraid
of colours in different eras,
I despaired in the seas of
bright orange and green,
and then pink,
all of which signifying
a chassis of lost hope.
Swirling rumours of
your impending death
making rounds,
despite the constant makeover
of a running track,
circling the fie
Mourning of a decade It should be a decadeMourning of a decade by ~ybing
of celebration,
instead
sadness awashed
me with the slowly
burning out of the
last vestiges of our
friendship.
It was you,
affable, compassionate
as Esther,
we were bound by
ties of piety to our parents,
a providence of shelter,
in my difficult moments
your warm laughter
an imprint left in memories
so deep as far as my memories hold
dearly.
Like a photograph
of lucid colours that will
fade with time,
I thought of your presence
a permanent fixture
held in time and space.
Was your confident assuring
laughter a mask of insecurity
of our friendship?
I know not as
I feel you slippi
The string puppet lover Head bowed down, a reverence heldThe string puppet lover by ~ybing
in the presence of this cherished relationship.
Your love shone ever brightly,
on my knelt form a comforting
warmth. You never told me
that my future will not be a bliss. A step
into the holy book of knowledge
a realm of unknowns I drown in.
Yet unfulfilled yearnings
and hope undelivered in a church
of promises. I bask in our intimate relationship,
with rich offerings presented on an altar.
Ever hopeful in spurts of blinding euphoria
held by warriors fresh from their battlefield.
A lover who never felt so loved
without the promise of attraction of Aphrodite.
You torture me as I am spurned
Cuts ICuts by ~ybing
A prick. Blood is drawm
dribbling hypnotised, a curious
fascination turned into seemingly wanton
desires. Control seeked in remedies
that appeared harmless. For self-protection
is the survival of the fittest. Factually
true, but scars of cuts are only but
permanent evidence of one's conviction
to outlive the rest.
II
There are many different types of
cuts. Some minute, invisible
to the flawless skin. Some major,
retold over and over again like a
grandfather's story, in vivid pictures,
to captive audiences. Unknown to them,
profuse loss of blood can be death-defying
because the eminent wound is tended
quickly. Unknown
