Wednesday, October 22, 2008

..on the wall

Something is wrong with the mirror in my room
It recklessly confused the image of my smile,
And instead returned the sublime of my thoughts,
Thinly caught between the glass and the pane,
Shards of sincerity are plastered away,
Because apathy never had face-value.
I probably become more see-through every time
Someone cracks open my insides.

Copyright © 2008.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Her steps trace the contours
of a familiar space
pacing the beat of ignored cramps,
but she
would continue to dance,
tapping across the cedar floor
of a hollowed room,
and the core of her body breathlessly consumes-
Rhythm, and each of her movements are measured
By time,
Twisting fate around, spinning circumstance to blind
Pain, to remind her again
what she lives for,
Spiraling in turn and this cure doesn’t burn
Her insides,
Absorbing instrumentals up from her stride to her spine,
But now she cyah find
Her balance.
And then her eyes, would sometimes
Drop so far from their focus
Her gaze grows a little more anxious,
Then I get extremely nervous,
Because (pause)
the doctor insists that she came with a ‘best before date’
printed somewhere around the same place
that they make the opening to insert the tube,
giving her until December to live,
and that date didn’t include,
when she decided to stop taking treatment,
stop making payments for medication,
stop storing her passion for living,
and sometimes her breathing
stops for too long
and her two lungs, begin to shut down, and
soon the ground meets the discreetness of her steps
and second-guesses her compressed-
but She’s losing her hair,
remembering how much drop-off dis morning…
at the edge of the bed strumming each strand in the light blue of her hand,
Unsteady, so it shakes the hope off of her ‘awareness’ wristband,
Looping a green satin ribbon
Around the frail of her fingers,
Unveiling her flesh that peels off with the fever
Her skin colour is changing…
And the blood under her thinning- skin
Never had such a rush within her vessels,
My only wish is that frustration didn’t make her so doubtful,
That she still have a chance in all of this,
Choreographed remedy, therapy for her illness,
That God would will this
madness away,
And that she could learn to trust Him one day,
Because dancers don’t die…
Their music gets cut-off.
And while she coughs- up blood
To wash her own self down the sink,
My prayers are stained red,
Too little time for me to think
of being at ease,
The cancer is taking over her kidneys,
And her steps are slowing down.