How can a masterpiece

also be a disaster?

Every transparency of honesty

is blurred in the fog of

the raven's lies.

Perhaps, every breath

is still embedded on

a dead throat where solemn

silence is woven infinitely

upon the ears of the souls

of the admonished sinners,

where it counsels the doubtful

and cares for the sorrowful

as if they dare death as an adventure.

I was once, one of your

sentences in your paragraph,

but you erased me, thinking i was a mistake

made purposely from the heritage of errors,

where it faded softly in a smooth transition,

soft as the kissed summer rain,

like naked cracks not being visible to anyone.

My wounds buries the dead of those

who stayed screaming than being quiet,

this is a funeral now, a forbidden apocalypse

of flashbacks coming back to me like an

immortal antidote coming back to those

that has been poisoned with bruises.

In one fluid motion, there's always

one suffix stuck to

her tongue whenever

she says 'help', like a siren

helping regain the voice of those

who suffer.

She was the last flowing water

in the desert, that helps

other water forms regain back

in their natural nature bodies.

There is enough space for

shadows to come thru in this

almighty light of justice,

Karma waves at you.

The lover of the lily of the valley

wishes nothing more than plucked and

shedded petals that make adjacent

hovels between shaking axes.

The girl that once dreams of that

axial tilt to which May becomes

tv statics and pauses, to which both

the darkness and the light dances

like 2 binary stars

in the movement of hydrogen glaciers

ushering me to sleep in its

dense casket bringing me back

to the old town of april, wishing

i could go back and tidy the pavements,

hushed me down in the

silent wars, and how brittle screams

is nowhere close to become tutors

to the forgotten people's ears.

This is a funeral now, for all the

riptide cares i give and i truly accept

for sadness to consume me alone.

I call to death whenever i forget how to

replicate the accents of a normal life.

I was fighting. I fought the suffocation

of volcanic erupts of May.

To the nightingale who broke the

silence of timid using your voice,

to the lily who still dreams of men

planting roses in her garden and watch

as they bloom,

to May, that became a graveyard

to the corpse dandelions,

The ruinous cracks you left, i never

knew that it would once

be known as an artwork

of misery's language. If betrayal was your gift to me, then i accept it as a curse. May is just a magnetar of lies wishing to

be unraveled by the sad reality, i devote to

you my weepings, and tangled whirlpools

while i sit in this holocaust of memories.

There's a splinter in my iris which I couldn't remove, a splinter who made me blind about my distorting existence, a splinter who made me unperceived for those people who kept my tarnishing & suffocating melancholy in the ombre sea floors of their eyes, the people who weaved the corners of my wounds, rotten flesh in a pattern of messed up bed sheets.

I would treasure them like rain drops in netted windows, kept in my heart, they're the one breath of sigh whenever i'm drinking coffee in a rainy day, a feeling of relief in a mentally jaded chapter.

I would keep you like a person's cascading soul in the cemeteries, always locked in place, in a tombstone with no bouquets, they were the fresh scent of perfume kept underneath soiled clothes, like the smell of a lavender field.

I would keep myself like someone's reflection, always sealed in my eyes, seeing in the dusty mirrors if there's uneven tones on my rainbow, if there's a scratch on my worn ivory skin when the whole time I was just blind about those those people that would try their best to pluck the sharp arrows that life would shoot at me, they would try their best to pluck that one singular splinter in my eyes.

Was I just blind the whole time? or was I paying too much attention to a single dark cloud that would give me thunders for the rest of my life?