The unwitting blade of betrayal gracefully swivels
like a wraith stealing shadows in the night;
even emptiness itself has left the crevasses of the mind.
In the void lie her unwavering cries, and she revels
like faith, devouring prayers, to the light.
For blind is the fortune that await each navigator
in every one of us, in pursuit of a forlorn dream,
in the barren ecstasy of hubris, in what was once a stream
—of consciousness. Searing. Deafening.
The marching continues
at every memory that time leaves as imprints
in the scroll marked by your soul and mine:
in blood, in memory, in word, in melody—
The bond is cut. Immortality brought to an abrupt end;
brought to the court where the judge outweighs
the compass of divinity. No longer does the sound of the cosmos
bellow in this collapse.
We find in the depths another monolithic device,
to rewrite the tale of deception, to smite the veil, the bastion
of promises we’ve entrusted the stars to carry
to the next ascension.
We find in the depths the pain of salvation—
the only tryst in this dimension where we are allowed
to start over and over again
to realize perfection.

Pulling Away

Men like to live their lives in blindness, for it is in the absence of sight where we find comfort in thriving with our shadows.

Lightness brings about the revelation of the truth, and the truth is something we all have been, in one way or another, conditioned to fear. And while this is distressing, It is in our own individual realities where we are able to exercise our scintillating freedom of sensibility, allowing ourselves to selectively deal with the moving parts of life that we feel are convenient.

Brevity is not the strongest suit of honesty. It usually takes a constant journey of having to unfold layers upon layers of reality until all the unnecessary constituents of the truth are stripped away from the core. Both meaning and reason can become devices for argument and not resolution, if we so choose.

We’ve all had at least, at one point in time, envisioned having a future with an ideal someone. We dreamed of this. We prayed for this. We danced to this—to the tunes inscribed within the verses of the secret languages of love, and at every opportunity we had, we glanced at its runes that would will its magic into existence.

Finding the right one is a bargain we’ve frequently afforded in order to fill out the barrenness. The mind plays out a nest of scenarios, rationalizing the stories as we tread the line closer to an actualization—and the moment of intersection arrives. We would create wonderful memories out of it until we discern that everything that follows it is an inevitable denouement toward some tragedy. As a contrasting role, we’d also endeavor trying to be the right one for someone who is already within reach, with which we’d take on the labor of getting as close as possible because the heart desires so. We’d invest a lot of effort into this until we begin to see that fate doesn’t work that way, and the points simply just don’t intersect as they are not meant to, no matter how asymptotic they’ve been. The trails fade eventually.

How we wish we could’ve made better choices leading to the point where we’re in right now. How we could’ve avoided all the mistakes we’ve committed. How we could’ve turned the other way every single time we were given the chance. How we decided to make problematic situations impossible. Instead, we inadvertently end up with a compounded, entangled, unresolved mess. But, maybe, just maybe, it’s not in trying to straighten all these winding roads out where we’ll unbind clarity. Maybe it’s in embracing discord that will grant us the lucidity to be free. From each other. From ourselves. From us.

Because it’s difficult to apologize. Because it’s incredibly demanding to accept that we were wrong. Because we’re too selfish to think that we all will be consequences of each other’s decisions and actions. Because we are too proud to admit that we always have a justification for every weight and bearing we’re accountable for. Because we listen not to hear but to respond. Because we are arrogant enough to displace our priorities and commitments to substantiate and validate the message we’re trying to get across.

How ironic for us to try everything in our power to get close to the dream, only for us to consciously bring ruin to it once we’re there. Could you relive the page in history when you first discovered how your heart longed for this? That same heart becomes defenseless and voiceless when we realize how capable we are in putting ourselves above its intrepid call. How overpowering could darkness be to blind us so much in equivalent exchange of inaccurate rightfulness?

It is not destiny that brings us where we are supposed to be. We are all outputs of our own conviction and triumphs, and indecision and inadequacies. This is what tunnels us into a one-dimensional track at full speed, reaching its highest peak, stops, swings back and pummels us into the fire. Everyday, the dark tightens its grip the more we resist the light. It burns away every single bridge we worked hard to build, and it becomes an insuppressible juggernaut until we are completely disconnected.

Try to gauge how much hope and goodness we’ve abandoned to justify what we felt was right—and how much we believed in it. How much effort went into upholding that belief, and how much we blindlessly sacrificed to not lose one move in this eternal chase.

We’ve walked through time long enough to recognize what could go wrong and which ones would set things right. In the solstice of this struggle, we either fervently observe how the pieces fit in the horizon’s dawn or peacefully watch how enchantingly beautiful the dusk consumes the sky.

When we’re all ready to let go of happiness in place of acceptance we think we truly deserve, we move on. Or pull away.

Never lose sight of that dream, even in the darkest of days.

How Many Times

How many times have we chanced upon this vile, terribly irresistible thing called love? And how many times have we fallen for it?

It’s insatiable. It stops when it decides to stop. We seem to have no power over it, and we’re incapable of comprehending its ability to permeate every fabric of our being once smitten by the object it so chooses to manifest itself in.

See, that is the grand illusion—the grand allure—of this false promise. Or false prophet. We have this innate tendency of associating its existence with a being outside of us. This is a pre-programmed human fault. Still, bearing this race-old wisdom, we disregard all principles to blindly and powerlessly seek its paltry reward.

Fact checkpoint: while you’re reading this, you already have a name or a face that goes with the thought of love.

We write stories about it. We sing songs about it—some few melodies of maladies, or the fading chants of those about to fall to their defeat as they march towards their inevitable ends.

We tell tall tales of it. We paint depictions of how we see it. We express how we feel it. We endlessly attempt to find the most fitting of words to control this outpouring of emotion and establish some operational structure into this omnipotent intangibility we worship in oblivion.

Yet, what we cannot truly fathom is its impregnable meaning—or perceived role in worldly life.

It’s like discovering the most addictive drug upon first consumption, or upon the fundamental entertainment of the thought of it. It sweetly reels you in and does not release its grip on all levels of your consciousness until it has exhausted all facets of your mind’s eye, corrupting it with the vision of a future you can only gain through it.

There is something attractive in knowing that it is going to be difficult. That it is going to be unbelievably challenging. That it is going to be a long, immeasurable, tedious endeavor. That it is going to be utterly impossible. Then, we take that leap of faith and engage in pursuing it.

Right there: impossible. Isn’t this familiar? It comes in all shapes and sizes.
We can’t love…
We shouldn’t love…
We couldn’t love…
We mustn’t love…

We fill out the rest of these statements with ease… automatically. We know it’s best to not love whoever the manifestation of it is.

But the temptation is just too damning for us to look away. All rationalization and logic get interpreted as mere excuses—giving us the self-granted right to put more excuses on top of these to justify following what the ‘heart’ commands.

Ah, yes. What a failure of an instrument. Every single faculty of intelligent design becomes fragile because of this one element of being human.

The hope that we have a chance, even the slightest, most minuscule chance, can lull us into designing, nurturing and embodying this belief that it is something that can be made possible. We cling on to this hope no matter how astutely beckoning it evolves as we traverse the path it keeps on laying ahead of us.

All alarms go off and the mind, in all its will and might, warns us not to take this frequently traveled road. But knowing that many warriors have succumbed to defeat in the many battles throughout many histories, and that many valiant suitors have eventually fallen prey to its primordial deceits, the wide expanse of chaos and the unknown manages to become the sound of paradise. It behaves like a waveguide that synchronizes with brain chemistry such that every auditory synapse becomes a compulsory calling. Love, after all, is a siren revealing to us that drowning in her turbulent sea is similar to transcending all inhibitions of happiness.

We somehow imagine that we have this key to turn the tide and win the war. That by pursuing love, Love will learn to love us back. How paradoxical.

We spend so many sleepless nights and burn so much valuable hours that could’ve been allocated for more productive acts, but we persistently lie to ourselves that this dark, old road is happiness in disguise. Eclectically ecstatic. Majestically moronic.

In the process, we also become a dichotomy. Half of the time, we love the thought of love. The other half, we hate it. We also simultaneously resist it. A virtual insanity—if you may—that it is literally able to tear our being into two halves, but have both co-exist in perfect harmony, feeding each other with hopes and dreams and reasons and calculations.

Every day we wake up being smitten by it is a day of success, retribution and confusion. Inexplicably, this limbo is, by default, fascinatingly fulfilling. This is the version of every day that would be the most contradicting. We always tell ourselves that we will stop this preposterous enterprise. At the same time, we encourage ourselves to go on.

This is all in the mind. What we overlook is that our infected mind influences our outward actions in an invariable degree. Unfortunately, it’s here to stay until Love outgrows us, and not the other way around.

Feels good to love, eh? Here, have a cup of reality to wake you up as you will most likely end this day thinking of somebody worth your love, and beginning tomorrow well-equipped to love yet again.

An Interval in Time

The faded light of weary lamps reflected on the black marble tiles,
where each heel contained the apertures of emptiness with characters.
The mirrors of the far west retraced the outlines of suits,
where royalty once ranked above all ambition and hope.
Doors welcome those who toil in the march;
as the scribe wreathes pages with promises—
one after another, the stories cross designs, and remnants
of such tales still tower over the vastness of dreamscape—
until fatigue overpowers will;
Comprehension begins to witness a singularity,
Consciousness ends all attempt at control, for
You have set You free from this structure, or the lack thereof;
We’ve stopped counting the days when we looked
at each other’s’ eyes, and only the milestones mattered
moving to the next evanescence.


The canister of the soul sits idly by as the gust
            bereaves temporality;
while peace sways with the makers of time,
a fine pair of sentinels trace the prints to the gates,
            and in their gaze have crossed all darkness
            hiding in Sol’s plain sight.
Stillness—the mark of yeasayers, desolated, isolated,
      stipulated passage upon passage with oblivion;
      yet hope layers strength, page upon page, until
the story succumbs to the tale of unending Proteus
that’s tethered to the origin of all life.
“It can never be found,” they said.
You looked inside and the light is there.


In this sequence, we view celestial motion
in extracts, as dainty leaves waving like the sea;
our pioneers have once recorded this growth,
this inconspicuous life form thriving among us:
“Change,” she was named.
Change—she was constant; in movement
she dresses all acts with character until
they could no longer be. Through brother
Time, she has proven fair in motive and deed—
until you see it come full circle,
for we are her creator, as she is ours. True,
you carry it in you, too. But to whom she answers,
the bearer of her immutable force,
is when we look from each other’s ends, bridge the gap,
and know how much has lapsed.


The notes were sown by the wind in sibilance,
swarming the surface of air with vibrations—
pulsing like vessels that fill Creators with sweet
Revelation after dwelling within which ends meet
one knot to another, tying, lying; enduring all tests
designed to pass the torch of Prometheus,
one blot of ink to another,
arraigned by the scribes in blindness, or in faith.
The proclamation is there, imperfect as it comes,
marching through a desolate trance
kept well within what is termed the subconscious,
but persists to be invisible as we are, after all,
ramifications of ourselves and the nature we are,
after the fall, granted. Yet we never know what it is
to be alone—for
I have a soul in you,
and that you have a soul in me, too.

Privet Andromeda

I’m abstracted in a triangle that awkwardly fit the missing piece
of a seven-sided shape. At first, it was broken; without
the right slide, it couldn’t be any full.
Red and black examined as a paired coating of a surface
that cannot be scratched by a silver barrel enthroned on it.
On one of its many faces, it indicated a number, as if
staring back at me, counting every reaction I make.
A glass crown snuggly fixed, yet being the most delicate,
was only to be kissed by the lips and whose character
to be wasted only with blessed water: then, two green cells
fill the emptiness, and powers it; when held,
it was either four, six, or seven, depending on how
you look or how you look—when pressed, it manifests
anger in its purest form, or peace in its strongest suit.
You know how to look, so do.
Just the right warmth, imagined in the cold,
and a little closer comes the scalding touch
of light, or the beam of hope in a timbre that resonates
with a goddess’ eyes, although in a mirage.
That is when you and I breathe and exchange soul codes.


At the bar of justice stood an outright lie,
            but could it be any real?—the presider asked.
            If it wasn’t, the message unsent would not
            have crossed against what seeps.
It stuck: the habit, the sweet dirge of a cold June sweeps;
            it lingered, like that gambit we
            shook our pieces into. A travesty—a tragedy, it
            looked as odd as a wooden face, carved by
            children’s hands in the dead of night,
            in the brooding eyes of a newborn sun.
You and I unfazed in this moment,
            the brutal honesty binds the link among.
If strength is a unit of measure, no scale
            would sit evenly—even with all the
            pleasures provided by mortal capacities,
            as the phase of black believed.
For amid all these masks stood—
                        this—an outright truth
                                    and the serpents basked
                                    in lament of its glory;
            either you choose to unsee, (But could it be
            any real? Yes, it tasked. If it wasn’t,
            light would’ve been the most daunting
            of all our fears.),
or at the bar of solstice, you choose to live,
            only to lie again, and dine to vie again.


It all began with a button, like the thin line
connecting two faces of a shirt covering the vessel of a single article
coruscating a progenitor of metaverses condensing the code of a soul.
A connection delays as if a harbinger, enduring most labors
that this world could provide, or gift. Where evening follows arduously,
there’s a shrine that bears answers to one physiological need,
and a stretch that wears dancers to a material unburied
by the woods that lie far in the east, and we parted
with a reunion of a story creased with distinction.

For in the deepest recesses of a human heart
is the animating principle that breathes demonstrable life
into this dystopian azure;
Distance doesn’t matter—as we believe it to be—for even time
couldn’t lay its hands on the phantasm we see to ourselves:
the only apparition that reconciles how we view geography.
Do you comply? Or do you wish so, too?
It all began with a button, characteristic of a sign,
yet in one connection we permit to invert the ravel of an aisle.
—a genuine inquiry that makes adequate mourning for both
a friend and a stranger in this hallowed dissilience.