even in unison
we are not meant to be

our hands are slipping
it is uneasy, unnerving
we are looted
not of our feelings
but beatings of our hearts; of one another

we served a time
in the prisons
with bars of words
and locks of promises

once we did; never again
even together
you and I are to end

only in acceptance
will we move on
only in moving on— will we breath again.


Faith in Survival

like birds still fly
above and inside
the violent winds in the tempest
fighting the storm

we let out our
last dying bit
of courage we receive
from our faith
of the strength we believe

that flawed we are
but in hope we live

in the chaos
of the disputed soul
we still look for reason
to not give in and fall

that is how we fly
our deemed esteem
is not in unsought power
concealed it is, in each of us— the faith in survival


Lines of your Palm

a figurine would know
how unspoken things
can mean and show
how fast something is won
how slow something is lost

amidst this fragile darkness
where lights are seen afar
a pardon is collected
once when fright seemed close
a sensuous depth of delight shines
and you hold my hand

and with the softest touch
you give me a chance
of feeling home; away from home
and then in your stance
I stand firm, almost bent towards

ecstatic, I dive in
with no mind at all
in hopes that you like what I do
or at least hold me when I fall

in the dark, starry night
I cannot see the lines of your palm
although in this warm, collecting light
I search for the path they lead

the way to where hurt is not hurtful
the road to how broken smiles carry love
and then finally,
to the place where the lines of your palm
in no conditions at all; lead you to the warmth of my palm



in times of dark desires
souls die of a lackluster
a hunger for love; a sweet, kind love

given enough time then,
souls turn fragile
they reek of darkness
then; like a corpse full of feelings,
our hearts weep blood

our souls die eventually,
keeping just our bodies alive
with an oblivion in our eyes
with a smile on our faces



in what sense
would it make sense
that you; bewitchingly
hold me so right

with none but scent
yours that I intoxicate
sitting across me
in awe of this facade
in glory that it’s ending

in never a new life
your fingertips would touch mine
in this danger, this lightless time

not a right place
in freedom from the sense
to be in front of you
to be apart and soon

I would walk on
with not the sway I walked in
but with the thought within