twister

light enters the distant corner
and she sees the familiar face
now, of the stranger
that she once shared the world with.

the audience applauds,
shouting and cheering
in glorious abandon-

she hears nothing
but faint whispers
muffled giggling
and sweet ramblings-
the air outside is cold,
but he is warm.
for her,
that is enough.

colors danced as the rhythm began
in careful, beating paces-
smiles and movements
beer and laughter-
eagerness
glaring brightness

A few moments
were all that they had-
intense stares
that shared secrets in silence -
(she never spoke that deep,
that whole...)
As their eyes conversed
without words,
she bared her soul.

He looks around,
and is pleased with what he sees
and he smiles as he hears them-
the loud, faceless crowd.
the crowd that she now resides in.

It was was rough and rowdy,
as he started the night.
but she did not mind;
she was someplace safe-

here,
in the the bittersweet shade
of a silent morning,

where her eyes
were all that his eyes could see
and her voice
was all that he chose to hear
and her smile
was all he wanted to need -
and happily ever after
seemed to step out of the fairy tale

loving

misleading

embracing them.

How

expansion of thought
and of theory
to hide
the inner longing
and waiting
and wanting
that she has placed
under thick,
barbed wires -
that is her escape.

In repetition
she recites:
I am fortunate,
I am not shattered.
my heart is merely broken;
my soul is only bruised.

she floats with
the sparkling notes
that fly and dance
in her room -
she is one with them;
they are her pain
and her joy
that freely move,
away from the prison
that she has planted
in her core.

Sternly,
she speaks to her mind:

read those volumes again,
every word that you remember
and those that you forget -
be the thought
that fills the space
between the lines.

listen well,
and drink the beauty
of any simple tune -
so that for you
It is nothing short
of a symphony.

watch,
reflect,
and for a moment,
fully live on the passion
pouring from the tv screen -

hoping against all odds
underneath the enchantment
and the painkillers
disguised as art

hoping,
hoping too hard ...

to heal.

symphony

encased
in morning melodies -
singing birds
moving feet
dripping dew...

I remain entranced
by your lovely tune.

you are the sound
of the rainbow
in my dreams...

beautifully haunting -
and nonexistent.

I miss you

I miss you in a different way -
It's not yearning,
nor longing
nor hurting
as that of before.

Rather...
It's more of solemn stillness
and echoed sadness
brought by waves of simple,
nagging nostalgia -
summernights, and endless dreams,
floating...
floating against the distant light.

Clear and certain,
I miss you...
Not with the tears
that I've shed before,
tears that used to grow,
pounding my head
in confusing beats -
throbbing,
piercing,
tearing me to pieces.

I miss you in a different way,
for now,
I forgive myself
for missing you too much,
too deep,
and once... too soon.

I miss you,
Not with denial
as that of the past,
rather,
its more of me accepting
what i refused to know
What I've failed to see before.

I miss you,
and now i am at peace,
now that I finally see
why you're not with me -

cause now, at last,
I understand...
you are where you should be.

(2003)

THE GLASS

Serenade me
through walls and bounderies
between us.

I'm a long way from you,
but each night I sleep,
with your assuring melodies.

There, behind the glass of fame,
you fail to see me staring,
seeing you...

It's a tough world, divided...
you in my fiction, and me,
far in my reality.

But still,
I can close my eyes
and see you instead, staring...
seeing me.

(2003)

SECOND VOICES

I try
to breathe
against the current
that is her eyes;
estranged tales
and tangled emotions -
deep and dark

and happy at times


all inside her masquerade -
a hidden tear per question,
a restless state of doubt,
substitutes for answers,
all is well, fears are out.

yet in silence,
I watch her hear him sing,
I watch her indifference
and feel her melt,
slowly,
painfully,
all in secret.

And comfort
is what I can never give.
It is what she could never feel.

And she tries to sit steady,
as she bites her nails...

waiting, still.

WAITING

it seems that waiting
is a fate that I must face;
muffled voices from neighboring tables,
distant footsteps from passing strangers,
passive thoughts of melancholy
all these, my faithful company.

I swim in the middle of a fading crowd
and I am not allowed to drown.
nor am I allowed to rest my weariness;
it's dark once more and I must not mind,
It's cold, and I must not feel.

And waiting, still
is the art that I must master,
a part of me
that I have no power to cut,
or improve,
or even become complacent with.

It is my cross;
when to and not to love it
is a quest that I undertake-
a path that I must walk,
a road that I must pave.

And yes, Still, waiting in itself
Is the goal that I must understand,
amidst the sound of troubled vans
and rushing cars,
and coffee cups nearing their ends,
still, all these I fail to comprehend.

Waiting still for your promises,
way past their expiration dates...
way beyond my deadline for holding on.
waiting, alone and so silent
all the same... all in vain.

*****

*image taken from

www.magda-francot-art.com/newpage28.htm