in a photograph of old times and old faces,
i found a feeling, familiar, like that of the handle
of an old walking stick to the feeble hands of
a man past his prime.
With two fingers,
The edge of,
I close my eyes
And I see them
All mocking me
In their bright white barongs
The ship rocks dangerously to its right,
And you hold on to the rail with all your might.
But you will slip and you will fall,
Off the boat, into the water, into the night.
Sitting, crouched and hunched over,
On the floor,
In a dark corner of her bathroom,
She contemplated what had just happened.
The pen struggles to write fancy words to impress,
But is there a need to impress?
Impress through scribbles on paper...
or flashing fingers on keypads...
The old photos on the coffee table have gathered dust.
There are no more parties for me to share them with.
There are no more friends to browse through them.
They are old, and the grow older, with each passing day...
I'm not long for this world.
My feet ache from all the miles they've walked.
My mouth is sore as all this time I've talked.
My ears bleed because they can no longer hear.
I feast upon a vat of honey that was stolen from the hives of the Palawan Rain Forest.
It was created by the labors of a hundred worker bees collecting nectar from flowers all across the unforgiving wilderness.