Just an empty houseA quiet empty house, by a hill somewhere beyond the trees it is with an open door for a face and an FM radio for a soul.Just an empty house
here, people come irregardless of agenda- to either stay
or lie down irregardless, a drink is always due.
the black paint now is crusting, peeling off slowly, true to its age the radio plays a tune of acoustics while the wall clock remains ahead- mobile as the call of time.
the residents have returned, innocent still, welcomed by comfort and friends and by the scent of arrogance and denial. they
The day after the tragedyThe night of the tragedy whole trees succumbed and leaves scattered over the immense flood.The day after the tragedy
The winds are a million jet engines and you in the middle of the crucible brought to places unknown by the will of a far greater force.
You are without a place, a home, without the power to move your world is but a toy to the delight of a child's games.
The day after the tragedy, there is light a light of sickening power and prophecy now you are the toy and the child left to fend for himself.
From leaf to god you have become
ocean's tearshas no one felt like the ocean's tears? lost to its proportions, the size perpetuates its own, the gravity sustains the pull, yet the waves push unmerciful.ocean's tears
I have tried to comprehend the emptiness that is this ocean. my arms have grown weak of paddling, now, but suspended amidst this clearing of but water and salt and mist, sitting on a boat that sways away- calm yet terrifying.
It is neither warmth of day nor embrace of cold night and directions have fallen to sides without despair. your grip on reality dwindles, or was it long lost and f
the humble fewThe precious humble many gathered under crisis of a life gripped by nature's vice such that one's breathing is impaired.the humble few
Tomorrow is wakened by the sight of tragedy where only one's life remains to protect that endangered hope and mend the broken spirit.
Despite, the crystal sky looms above to remind of something beautiful- that as long as hands are held steadfast the deluge will find our stand worthy.
one strong voice is heard beyond the cries- the call to answer the lengthy fight. such that we assemble in one mighty stand to forge
| I'm a sick person. I feel like a filter (i guess everyone's a filter in a sense.) I remove waste, and deal with the waste. Eventualy, you have so much waste, you become sick. So I'm sick, not the infectious kind of sick. But if you decide to read the poems, then you get waste on you. You dont want that. |
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In Our Darkest Hour
Will You Still Care?
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In Our Darkest Hour
Will You Still Care?
- Aileen Velasco
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The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection. - Rumi
WOW Bakit??? ano meron???
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The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection. - Rumi
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