Subjective Bedrocks

A love that consists

A whole foundation of a life

That continues to resist

The mistrust and a knife.

A religion that roots deep

Beneath the establishment of humanity

That carries out to keep

The worship of the Christianity.

Time reveals various sides.

A golden necklace in his pocket

That a girl never received.

A kiss of broken words

That promised everything but to cleave.

His eyes that follow another girl’s back

The girl now believes.

Da Vinci Code discovers another truth.

A bible may or may not have

Been written by one man,

A Jesus may or may not have

Been married to Maria Magdalene,

The sangreal may or may not have

Been a symbol of a female.

Absence may make the heart grow fonder

But what is out of sight may be out of mind.

A child could choose

To thank the Santa or the parents.

We shall never know

The truest version of these stories.

All I can do is choose

A truer version for myself.

An Axis of Rotation

As a second passes by

A molecule of a river is replaced.

As a day goes by

A number on a calendar changes.

As a season goes by

A different breeze goes through my sleeves.

As a year goes on

I change by an age.

I should have realized

You also change

By a second, a day, a season, a year.

They say time changes it all

But really it is the people living in it that change.

The time is not to blame.

Remember the days I was worrying

How time may challenge where our hearts shall bent

You were too confident to tell me

If there is a will there is a way.

You sounded too assured –

Yes, too secure.

The deep night sky spreads in front of me

But again, every second,

I’m seeing a different sky, another constellation.

Irresistibly, I simply stare.

A silent prayer wades through the night

Hoping to be a firm axis of rotation

That shall pin down on the earth with its graceful weight.

A Morning Of The Winter Version

The storekeeper arrives.

In this silence of warm crystal morning

A key unlocks a store door

Struggling through everything absolutely frozen

With only a small sound of cling.

When the door is flung opened

There’s a sound of the bells.

That is how the awe of last night

Is shattered into pieces of light.

And then I see another world of

What was tomorrow of yesterday.

The unmoving air

Make trees stay even darker.

Birds constantly sing,

But without flapping their wings.

In this vacuumed atmosphere

The sun rays penetrate through every sound molecule

And glorify the gleam to the new extremes.

And then I stay silent;

I do not wish to shatter further

The already cracked moment.

With a blow of a breath

I could make a butterfly fly.

I let the touch of my finger tip

Wake the dormant leaf.