Now paint the walls of your mortal veins, soaking your lies with True Blood.
Freedom, has now been born
—Date: July 9th, 2010.
“True Blood”: Living Lie (Reprise)
"Lust"
I lie awake, intoxicated by its venom,
As it flows through my veins to cripple my adolescent innocence.
I can feel my blood moving steadfastly,
Like a convicted river destined to marry the Atlantic
Alas, the hairs on my skin now stand, restless;
Exposing my skin to the stubborn wind chills that precede Summer.
Here I am, struggling to breathe,
For my lungs keep propelling gusts of sexual pleasure.
And my heart echoes this storm as it pounds to the sounds of my wailing orgasm−
The first born child of my weakened senses.
Now my mind bears the stains of your infinite presence,
Causing my thoughts to weave nothing but Lust.
Never, have I felt this true……
“Living lie”
You’re a Living lie,
Truth’s fugitive on the loose.
Deception feeds on your insides like a cancerous disease;
And your streams of honesty are flooded with dark water.
You’re a Living lie,
An immaculate illusion that fools the naked eye so easily,
Like the colors of a chameleon harmonizing with nature.
So profuse are the lies, they created a wall;
Lo and behold, The Berlin Wall of false pretentions.
Cease to be a Living lie,
Burn the veil and lay bare your flaws.
Allow the truth to command your heart.
However deadly shame may be, conquer it,
For it only kills a man arrested by fear.
Dreams Vol 1: My Future
Years of sleepless nights bore the same dream,
That of My future, untainted.
Under the surrogacy of my imagination, it remains.
Yet it still shines, revealing the success so vehemently-sought by many.
It consoles me. It gives me hope,
Like a memory that wills a grieving widow to face the day.
Pessimism tried to paralyze my determination.
But it could not defeat me with its reptilian ways.
Each passing day I gain clarity;
I can smell the scent of prosperity that which destiny has in store;
I fear not the pangs of failure.
For I am the master of my own fate. *
*This line of the poem was originally written by William Ernest Henley in his poem “Invictus.” I don’t claim ownership over it; I just used it to conclude this poem because it fits.
"Dust"
Alma couldn’t stop panting…
Her dark, mahogany skin was drenched with tears, which were now starting to sparkle under the fluorescent lights of St. Michael‘s Hospital. It seemed as if she was a weeping waterfall, but with crystal streams of pain flowing out from her fractured heart. She looked at her watch; it was already 10 pm---6 hours had passed since her husband got sent to the OR. Looking up she saw doctors gliding around; some were delivering messages of hope, and others left a trail of misery as they announced death’s victory. For a while she just stood there, allowing grief to wrap itself around her like a cold, morning mist. But she finally decided to flee the waiting room to get some air.
“….It has been years, since North America got hit by a dust storm. Meteorologists even claim that it’s damage surpasses that of the great American “Dust Bowl,” bellowed the T.V set Alma passed by; the 10 o’clock news was in progress.
It seemed impossible for her to find some sort of haven amidst that chaos. She even wondered if a big wave of hysteria had serpentined its way towards the hospital grounds…perhaps a second plague? But she finally retired herself to a small room which appeared to be full of hospital supplies. There, she wrestled with her mind and started to re-wind the events of that day. One thought continuously troubled her; was she finally being punished for the dark secret she had kept from her husband all these years?
1: 00 p.m- Eearlier in the day...(2-3 hours before the Dust Storm hit the city)
It’s a quiet Sunday in Old Town Toronto, a suburb located a few miles outside of the city. A couple of boys are seen chasing a ball, relinquishing their youthful souls under the radiating Savannah sun of that afternoon.
“Boys, stay close to the house so your father can watch you---I have to go my office to get a few things, ok?” yells Alma as she bids farewell to her little boys.
Although bearing an icy demeanour as she leaves her sons, Alma manages to crack an affectionate smile---one with a silver lining of love, but also coated with blemishes of guilt and fear. She immediately hops into her SUV and then pulls onto Yonge St... to flee suburbia.
A slight wave of ferocious winds emerges as she drives away. It begins prowling through the soil, filling up the air with specks of dust. Alma continues down Yonge St, and then finally merges onto the highway leading towards Mississauga. Her cell phone rings.
“I’ve got a box of Cadbury’s and a Chardonnay waiting for ya babe” a male voice answers back.
A sudden metamorphosis occurs as the voice touches Alma’s ears. We see her eyes starting to glimmer as they surrender themselves to the flicks of light piercing her windshield. The guilt and fear that had been written all over her face also disappears, unmasking her immaculate beauty.
“O Jonathan, will you ever stop with those romantic clichés of yours?” Alma responds.
It had been 2 years since she met Jonathan Richardson. She still remembers their little “meet-cute” as if it was yesterday. She had just finished her daily 9-5 and there he was, gliding towards her office as if he were Godsend. Alma couldn’t help but marvel at how his shiny, blonde hair glowed effortlessly, creating a radiant aura she had never seen in any other man, including her husband. He could have been a character in one of those heart-wrenching romantic comedies…a Jude Law perhaps.
“Mrs Jones, I apologize if I’m of any inconvenience; I was just sent to remind you that the Smith account went through,” he said.
“O…um, thank you, and please…call me Alma,” she said, putting an end to her daze.
“Jonathan Summers; I recently started working for you firm,…perhaps we could do coffee some time?”
Yes. Just Coffee.
What was meant to be a “strictly platonic” relationship had now erupted into this devious, act of sin. Alma struggled to end it, but the lust was still raging, devouring any ounce of reasoning that she possessed.
So there she was, driving up Jonathan’s driveway…unaware that her life would soon change forever.
2:30 pm, back at the house. The dust storm is now upon Old Town Toronto. Alma’s husband and kids are busy packing things up in their basement…they all seem frantic.
“…hey, this is Alma; just leave your message and I will-”
“Dammit,” yells, Richard. This is the 6th time he’s tried to reach his wife. He looks at his children; fear has imprisoned their innocence.
“Everything will be alright…I’m here for you and…everything will be fine,” he says, summoning them towards the basement. Even he can’t find enough credibility let alone encouragement in his words.
“Stay down here, and don’t open the door….I’m going to go get your mother…”
His children faintly respond….it is the last time they will ever see their father.
Forty-five minutes later Richard pulls onto the parking lot in front of Alma’s office building. The city is deserted and raging winds are spurring dust everywhere. Richard presses on…he’s determined to rescue the love of his life.
As he reaches out for the entrance, a sharp, metal rod floating within the dust pierces his chest….
10:30 pm, at the Hospital…Alma is back in the waiting room, speaking to what looks to be a doctor.
“Your children will be fine, Mrs. Jones. As for your husband; well, he lost a lot of blood and we tr-….Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones are you okay? Mrs. Jones! It‘s best you stay within the facilities so you c-…”
It was too late…
She had already fled the hospital and was now standing outside, gazing at what had become of the city…Everything was buried under dust…all of man’s creations, devoured by Mother Nature. The CN tower strangely maintained some kind of grace as it loomed above the city, offering hope for a new beginning.
Alma started walking among the ruins silently, like a ghost summoned by the darkness…She had no idea where to go, but something inside her, perhaps some mystical force drove her along the dust…
"Toronto"
Honking cars, the songbirds of the city;
Off they go, drowning the street beggar’s wails of desperation.
It’s cold---this could be a wintry Armageddon.
The sky begins to shed off its drapes, unleashing the Great Morning Star.
Down below, coffee-scents infiltrate the city,
Announcing the start of a new day, a new beginning.
Masses heave along the streets,
And I see all types of skin colors basking in the morning light.
The whole world must be gathered today, in celebration of dawn.
There goes the guitarist by Queen and Yonge,
Playing a song for humanity, the anthem of our existence
An ode, to salute the great city of Toronto.
"Lucifer"
You’ve found me….vulnerable;
Like a babe sacrificing itself to its mother,
To be quenched by her love.
You now invade my garden of innocence,
Flooding it with the waters of iniquity and doubt.
My petals---the bearers of my conscience, now float atop your evil.
Off you go into the darkness,
Leaving me diseased with sin.
Alas, the flames of divine retribution now await my arrival.
If only thou could harp alongside Yahweh once again;
Flapping your wings rhythmically to the sweet sounds of virtue;
Bearing your armour, as the gladiator of righteousness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
