Epiphany.1

Rouse me gently,
thy patterns of blue.

Swing me tender,
whilst you are ready
with the shades of warm
once immersed.

Droplets and Sunshine.

Misty was the morn,
sounds like someone had woken me up
a foil rustle, was it...

Hmmm.
No, it wasn't.

I have to really listen to myself, as the repetition murmured.
Bells on my dermis bloomed.
then I heard a tune of solemn in my head.
Makes me wonder what was the weep about.
But it was a melody of melancholy.
Was it a projection or a
reflection...

xxx

I kept it all concentrated,
as I had my positive energy all channeled through.
Knowing I were to be put through tests to get by,
was actually, an acknowledgement - that message, somehow.

Please be patient,
I told myself.

I knew where not to head
as much as my nature was to be designed as such.
I knew I couldn't afford to step in
as I bury in the pool of remorse.

Should not my leash convey that I am all restrained,
for/but my intentions are just to shower you a can of fresh air,
and a ray of sunshine.

I will smile too!
If all allows.

xxxxx xxxxxxxx

A Man who Can't Tell Time.

To lost the ability to count,
swimming within an envisioned time line,

rather not know, the space I exist on.


What is a year with - three hundred and seventy four days, or lesser, or more.

What does the cycle of repetition matter, as seasons change, or summer stays.

The value of decimal captures no more of how far I should disperse.

Limits no speed, nor countable nouns, red I shed, or of any circumstances.



It is only I,

the sky and its reflection,

maybe some sand on the palm.


And vague, pictures...

No, pitch black.





Sitting by the sea,

counting stars.

Little Girl, There.

We were this close, this close... see this tiny gap between me thumb and the index finger?

I only got to hear about you, and it seems that nothing could change that pattern of relation, I'd assume.

And when I do, I smile, cause you reminded me of someone.


I think it is the entrapped mentality that we caught ourselves stuck within,
seems that we never failed to have talked ourselves to the bridge over water,
whenever allowed.

Somehow, our personal, distinctive encounters just made me ponder...
though its another unnecessary linkage, ...that I doubt any other would have poured any effort to fathom this mere subject.

It felt good when I sat down and analyse how it was, you know, finally there, without a plan, but with utmost blessings.

It was a show for myself. Though legs still shaky and wobbly.

Maybe one day, one day you'll understand.



It would be pleasant for me too.

Shout.

As uncivilised as it seems,
I feel like shouting to you...
through the hills
through the thin walls
through some hundred miles
through the virtual space


It is like a market place as we dwell;
when I intended to respond to you,
I masked it with my sight, my movement, my volume
...but my tone stays the same
only for you to read no more.


So much left disorganized in between
so much pile of waste
pollution
scribbles
junk
ashes


How could darkness be defined so meticulously,
as compared to the light I saw.

Please forgive my barbaric actions.

...for I want to be heard.

Identical.

I stepped into a house of music, least that I'd call it, that is.

It wasn't too lavish to begin with,

but it was all embedded, all from the tips of the man.



To see what this lady is doing,

doing all, to prove her existence.

Not for the sole purpose of that,

it was means over ends.



I was inspired.



It came to me,

this identical personification that we drew.

I was about to ask for permission,
if I can do it, one day.


And I will be able to sing for you.


As in, you don't have to know how to sing,

or express in any particular manner.

I will, and I want to do it for you.



I promise, I will not put myself in the picture,

and that I wouldn't interfere.

Just like how it was.


I'll be your quiet jukebox.


And I'll sing you this song.

Dear Gerbera.

Yes you, the one in orange.

Have I told you that I had once secretly dreamt to be a botanist?

It wasn't part of being materialistic.

Neither it was part of the industrialized mechanism, imprinted on blank faces.

You are a creation of wonder, equally as magical.

No, my dear, I wasn't being conned and blind folded.



I just... really want to love you more,

more than I have ever should.

You never fail to stand straight, with pride,

...as you greeted with your warm signature vibe.

You would have to leave some day,
I knew.

And I knew that you wouldn't have it done harshly,
gentle as silence,
always...you are.



To my dear orange Gerbera.