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. ...