MORE SAND

not all that glitters is gold.

The wild sunshine danced on the floor of his misty eyes. The songs of the birds are perching on his ears, they sound like roars of the indescribables, later on it will sound like the wooing of a static frequency, on electricution.

giving theory a feet.

"Scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes with a lot of butter will do". The next and only loud spoken words after whispers of confession on an altar of piled up rocks. At least, they listen better compared to Father Vergara who never even bothered to drop by again after he gave him cold splash of unkind, insane verbal assaults coupled with a foul spit on his purple robes.

masked purpose.

Clasping these hands together and forming a sanctuaryof fingers are a sign of despair. The mouth speaks insurgency. Rubbed knees sinking in waxed floor. In the night. In the cold. In the darkness... which was never made in the first place. Let me hear you say again, "Let there be light".

easy on the carpet.

You were like a blanket. You embraced my vision with blinding white. You covered me while i was sleeping. You rolled warmth through my feet. Am I like the coal beneath your icy crest?

happy as december.

The future is a broken eyeglass that have finely drawn cracked lines, securing an unclear path, it is like a picture of roots spread to the ground. All we see on the broken lens is hundreds of reflections of our own eyes. Then shall we take off the broken eyeglass to see what lays on the path. See the present to avoid future tense.

i bear a resemblance of what i've been through.