Papier-mâché

With my eyes open,  I hold a m emento: picturing as how she shakes the transparent bottle every morning, As how she does it to her sweater, now; she would cuss, “ Damn , these lints won’t take off.” Relieved by her efforts,  “Kiss me on the cheeks, son,” her good-bye. Riding her decade-old Blue scooter—bare hands. Embroidered on it was the Nirvana—a conventional mantra. Worn with white hopes of today’s hardships. Today, I pray for her deliverance; O, Holy Ghost, may she be touched?  Spare her from normalcy’s danger. From Her son who once was breathing infant, that savored And smelt the aroma Of the breast, That bore the Summer. Madame of Her class, can I hold you? Are you near?  Are you near? Presence, I seek you; Be dear!

In 2000 born the child of Lianga, Rejoice to the birth of thy Modesty. Await no more, the day has come Of the nine-month protection! From thy bosom shall yield the son of man; “ Voilà, here’s your child whom you dear; thanks heavens for He’d mercy! ” Shouted the curious. Hoisted —see the light of these thirsties of your presence! There, there, sire, hold your precious sprout! Laid on the softest cotton and lullabies, Of tomorrow’s better place; But, O Yesterday’s wonder, could you be recurred? From today’s brokenness, Where are you, salvation? Decades of the Lad’s voyage from his springtime; Glistening seasons, altering scenes and incongruous rhymes Of the words he’d lain upon the scented cloth. From a pure noun grew up to a castaway pronoun, On quests, in admirations. Applause; give this kid the Gold! To you, my gracious kneeling, pity me, For silver’s a traitor! Hear him  ye bystanders, Solitude’s game has befriended his entirety. Prai

This four-minute masterpiece lingering at 3:58 A.M., With a fluttering melody.   Visit not my brazen eyes as they dream, It is I who dreams with eyes open. Thy bewitching virtual, deliver me from thy storm; Give me time as I speak my chants. “ Could you wait for me by your door ?” a response. Hear thy caged wren as it sings for freedom, Heed this high-strung being, forgive his mind  That longs for space, As the lungs breathe out the 21st rural smoke.  “It’s your night ,” the words that had summoned me. Bed of strawberries and guns that pull my body down; T’is the place I lie upon—never rested. Wail; listen to me as I stand before you—an alluring apparition. Pray, pray for me, my dear, as I face this perplexity; From this that had stood before me—the luscious red, curled daydream, And through his vision of me, That had seen the angel from his dark brown eyes. Could you be gentler? “Have mercy!” My knelt-down prayer; I shout it! I shout it!