Humanity,
the Creator, the Destroyer.
What powers rest in your
wretched hands?

Chiseled from rough diamond,
forged in scorching flames,
hammered into fortified steel
to breed horrors and beauties alike.

The head of Holofernes,
reflected in tempered glass
a mirror of Saint Catherine
executed by the scythe of death.

Or the gentle touch of artisans
weaving tapestries of life,
painting art with blood
burning with the spirit of Caesar.

Whose right is it to uphold
the mantle of justice, of legacy?

Hands that persevere
when eyes say impossible.
Hands that fight
when eyes say surrender.
Hands that destroy
when eyes say linger.
And hands that create
when eyes say hopeless.

Humanity,
the Destroyer, the Creator.
How infinite the powers
your wretched hands behold.
A curse, a blessing, a shame,
yet all the same, is
nothing short of divine.

The whirring of a thousand bees,
the squeals of children—
it’s deafening.
Bare feet slap on concrete,
then jump on sturdy nylon
before bouncing in the air,
rebounding like a falling ball and
landing swiftly.
Danger—
it does not exist
in the starry-eyed gleam
of youth.

The house of infinite breaths
tilts—a game
until it isn’t.
There is only delighted shrieking
as bodies stack in a corner,
tipping the world off its axis.
Chests compress, bones
crack, air fades. . .
There is only delighted shrieking
as no one sees, too blind.
Death—
it does not exist
in the innocent mind
of youth

until it does, and
sound hitches to a silence.
Bodies shift. The world straightens.
Chests expand, bones
mend, air returns. . .
And there is only bewildered crying
as a child hugs her legs,
coughing and gasping
but very much alive.

Rage
Black as a starless night
Happens when centurions of justice fall
Sounds like the shrill of silent songbirds
Rage

—was nothing but pain
in the esteemed eye of justice
in the heavens they reined
in the facade of Augustus

—was nothing but desolation
in the streets of the poor
in the flames of their nation
in the shattered dreams of grandeur

—was nothing but death
in the ruins of their fray
in the sands of endless breadth
in the stars that lost their way

—was nothing.

Birds of a feather, they sing together,
Calling the onslaught of pain, strain, and gain,
Humming a tune of what was and would be.

When the lion leaves its wretched hurst,
When the tiger dawns from its sullied den,
The sun—so, so bright—it shines

And the birds fly from their nests and roosts
Towards the sun and the godless heavens,
Their wings beating to the thrum of the bells.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Oh, how they sing and
Sing and sing—endless, fearless, timeless.
A chorus to the harmony of playing carillons,

Yet singular, nonetheless, as they hum,
We are free, We are free, We are free

Under the first blossoms, my love did shine
Through fissures of branches, the sky so high.
Your sun, clear and pure, was enough a sign
For me to regret our time of goodbye.

Spring filtered our days, cleansed my love anew,
Tempered shadows of what will come. From pine
Trees of my love, I watched all as you grew
And, blind from bitter truth, dared call you mine.

But my love was not ever meant to be.
The bright suns, tall trees, blue skies knew full well.
Still, I braved winds like the waves of the sea,
One thought remaining untouched in this hell.

Even when Spring falls and when Winter soars,
I will be forever and ever yours.

Your eyes—shriveled and gray. A husk
Of past fortunes and fortitude. Hollow
And withered from the abrasion of time on mind,
The grate of tempered steel gates,
The death of that once yours, now mine.

What am I to do as you waltz through sleep,
Wrestling time’s hands wrenching memories in minutes,
Losing more of yourself and your past by the hour?
No longer do you greet me with a smile but
With a frown of bewilderment, a glower.

No angel is here to guide me nor you, or
Weave spells for wished dreams to come true.
Each day a roulette—sometimes a curse or a daze
Since the malady haunts all by leaving you,
Fragile like goldfish, in continuous mental decay.

First, your mind, and now, your body,
Washing away like fine chalk on pavement,
The sandcastle you built braving ocean waves.
Weathered piecemeal, each granule a lost memory,
A tear in the tapestry of happiness you gave.

Now, as dirt covers fibered wood, stains it
Muddy black, I stand watering the soil
And I take my time. I take my time.

Invisible glass
May fate come to pass
Like sand,
An impeccable mass

Stories once told
In granules of gold
Stay chiseled,
Now out of my hold

Affronts never gone
A hidden, wretched song
I dare,
Cross that Rubicon

Yet powerful their act
Free of virtue and tact
Enough,
Let’s let the glass crack

That warm summer day when I saw you
On your knees down in the roses.
The wind blew and sang,
Rose and rang,
Humming a sweet lullaby.

Flowers upon flowers grew there,
Cherished your charming embrace.
In the garden winds, hear them sing,
Praising the onrush of spring—

Susan, Susan, Susan Rose,
Knees bent deep in dirt-black sheets.
Where all things live and all things go,
I wished for you to come to me.
Susan, Susan, Susan Rose,
Eyes so sweet like honeycomb.
When temple’s blue and world’s white,
I wished for you to call a home.

•

Down the river, we raced, sweet Susan.
Through the valleys and hills, we ran.
With your hand in mine, we’ll be fine,
Jack and Jill? Sounds good. It was a plan.

People came and went, darling Susan,
Yet past the lily orchids, we flowed.
We rose; we fell despite this hell,
For love was our bottomless well.

Yet, those years passed awry, dearest Susan.
Springs waned, leaves flurried, winters neared.
At the break of dawn,
You’re still gone.
Eve has fled Eden’s spawn.

Susan, Susan, Susan Rose,
Dearest darling, can’t you see
I’m still here, yet no one knows.
Why didn’t you come to me?
Susan, Susan, Susan Rose,
We’ve lost our love, so hear my plea.
Staring down the face of the sublime—
Baby darling, if only you could be mine.

See the house on that hill,
beneath the inked letters of past
memories, happiness built?
How great it was, how grand it was.

See those leaves on the path,
those roots sprouting between cracks
of eroded soil, of storms’ aftermaths?
How beautiful it was, how peaceful it was.

See the willow in the west
with veins hanging like a warm embrace
and billowing like a sweet caress?
How happy it was, how innocent it was.

Now, listen to the gleeful breeze,
to the laughs of spirits over long years,
and see. See the picture with more ease.
A forlorn house, a rotten path, a weeping willow,
all crying for lost time.
Forever undone.
Forever neglected.

Lost is the mighty. Found is the pitiful.
Nothing set in stone can be rewritten.
Look at time’s ruin destroy the invincible
and think: How tragic it is, how miserable it is.