Tuesday, December 4, 2012

12.04.12 | Arrogare

Man thinks he's God. He did not create the universe, but he seeks to create his own. He has weak and vulnerable physique, but believes he is a master thief. To acquire strength, he mimics and exploits other creatures for the best of their biological functions, making these into his own tools for his creations. How does he thank these poor creatures, you might ask? He doesn't. He kills them. All of them, save a few who are taken into domestication and manipulated into believing they're best friends. And what happens when you deprive man of his technology, and leave him, more tender than a fetus, all alone in the real world? He dies.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

11.11.12 | Lost and Found? Look Around.

Excuse me, Mister! Have you seen my shadow?
We'd gone out to paint the clouds
And watch the sun go down,
But my shadow—
He disappeared
With our purple, pink, and gold.

Monday, September 10, 2012

09.10.12 | Nocturne of a Ghost

Fate was cruel to have us meet and recognize that we were perfect for each other but were not meant to be. At every crossroad I come across sights, scents, sounds that evoke memories of you, pieces of you. You live in my heart as shards of glass embedded deep; you are not whole—you are fragmented. I try to fit you back together with my yearning as my thread, yet I know I must banish you from my thoughts. I must. But how can I, when everything I do reminds me of you?
How often does my ghost shatter your solitude, and for how long does she stay? Or have you moved on and hoped that I had done the same? What if we could start again, in another life? Would our circumstances have changed? If we could choose, we’d both agree—let us meet beneath the ginkgo, and sleep as lovers sleep.

Monday, June 11, 2012

06.11.12 | Ginkgo Biloba

Goethe wondered
Whether the bi-lobed ginkgo leaf
Represented a rift
Or a marriage.

All I know
Is that in this golden grove
Our minds intertwined
And became One.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

04.19.12 | My Identity a Masquerade

Is there really a face beneath these layers and layers of masks? Each mask gradually disintegrates and I am left with yet another crumbling fa├žade. Shards of mirror appear, lodged in these skins, attempting to reflect the beauty of the world but only catching a distorted, fragmented view obscured by paint. The once-vivid pigments are now dry and colourless and fall to the floor in flakes to join the dust. After these masks all fall, after the paint fades, and after each silvery piece of glass plummets to the ground and shatters into a million pieces, dust will be all that I have.