She Sings

She sings and it was
Like light pouring out
Into the dark voids
One was filled with hope
As the sight falls upon her
A truly eternal beauty
Of fairest skin and palest eyes
And her dark locks
Tender tendrils over her shoulders


Once I saw her I was smitten,
Knocked deep down and senseless
My soul took leave of its vessel and
I yearn to see her again and again
Day after day I went to the same place
Where the birds sing and the goats wandered


But it seems I would never
See her again

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Butterflies In Winter

And so I wait
With abated breath
Patiently and quietly
With a whole lot of faith
Standing beside, in your shadow
Waiting for time to pass
For Acceptance to come
When you will say yea
Instead of nay
And still
I dare not breathe
Nor make a sound
Lest I lose you
And you disappear
Right from my very sight
Vanish from my empty life
The moment you came
Into my life I treasure
A landscape with colour
You painted for me
I burn
This feeling consumes me
Entirely without mercy
I feel hot all over
And sometimes cold like winter
And I wonder
Do butterflies live in winter?

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Cross Street (continued)

Your memories I withheld-cherished
From the stains of time
In the compartment of-my heart

A figure dances along
The frozen lake yonder
Beauty escalated by thin ice

A figure crosses the street
In the midst of traffic
Contact was made

And just as it was
The beautiful snow flake
A multitude of lights catching it
Made it even more heavenly

Falls onto the ground
And melts
As the sun rises

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Cross Street

It’s been a long while. A long while since I have spent a moment with myself, getting in touch with the Inner Self. I am contemplating a few things, and the foremost on my mind is the return to darkness. A return back to Mother, or the Queen.

The Fool, making a circle of his journey around the world, first meeting the Magician and then the rest…

A return would raise problems. Problems of pain and problems of melancholy. One could do without them it seems. So well that even I can’t put the pen to bear anymore. Perhaps it signifies something, that I need to step out of my safey zone, into the silence…

Enough of me lamenting again…I have to lament everytime I step into here eh?

But then again, some things still inadvertently reminds me of the past…

Every time I open my door, the keys would bring back a certain piece of the puzzle…

Everytime I pass by the river, and another piece would fit in…

Everytime the bus drives by and there it is again…

Somewhere, everywhere, something lingers…

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Some Where

He walked along the street with a heavy heart. Occasionally, as he passed under the street lamps, one could see that his eyes were glistening. The stronger he made himself out to be, the harder it was to keep out the masquerade. The stronger he became, the more isolated he was.

Why did things have to turn out this way? He had to step outside for a smoke. Staying in the same room was too energy-consuming for him. Facing her everytime, seeing those things that could have been, those should have beens. There was too much pain.

It was wrong. A place that brought happy memories to him now brings him pain. Absolutely wrong.

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It was almost dark. Dusk was falling upon the city-state, sending the heart of it into slumber to prepare for another battle tomorrow. He was sitting at the void-deck, in the midst of the heartlands, enjoying the serenity it seemed to bring. He needed peace and quiet, needed to slow down amidst the hectic pace of life, to self-reflect and reminiscent. There are times when one needs to be alone and this was clearly it. Besides, there was nothing more to accomplish for the day.

There were so many things going on in his mind now, a treacherous swamp that he had no way navigating around.

A train rumbled along the tracks above.

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inspiration loss

I am gradually losing the inspiration and the drive to write constantly. It is losing its meaning perhaps, and bodes well this does not.

Of course, I do still write in my writing pad, but it hardly ever makes it into electronic form anymore. There are many ideas, many seeds, but I know not how to cultivate them. Trial and error seems to be the only way.

Even my writing now seems discontinous.

And I write like an attention-deficit kid.

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