Unveiling....

Against The Dark of Death: Unveiling the Fires of Project Life

About four years ago, I began to taste the price asked of me for the choices that I made in life. There I was, a frail man walking the streets of Zamboanga like any other person, and yet deep inside I was a cauldron of destructive and vengeful urges, of madness swirling all over my head, a despair unlike any I have known before or imagined, my burning hands, once the pride of my existence stretched out, groping out into the emptiness where no one was.

It even came to a point where I loathed the person that I have become that I thought to myself that the best thing I could ever do to stop the hating and the loathing was to rid myself from this world.

And somewhere along these dark and brooding days, Project Life was born.

As known by some friends, Project Life was a double edged sword, at that time. It was my attempt to write down and chronicle the things that I have witnessed and endured in my life as a testament that I did exist, and not only that, that I made a difference, that I was present not only in the world but in other people’s lives as well. Of course, the price for the chronicles of my life was ultimately its inevitable ending. And that was an ending that my friends found distasteful.

My hand was supposed to come from my very own hands.

My life project, thus I call it Project Life, and it is simply the compilation of two books, one that I owe to someone whom I wished that I could have held in my hands, the other one for my own, the compilation of all those papers that I have stained throughout my life as a starving, struggling, striving poet.

Life though, has a few twists and turns left for me. I met new friends, found and lost love, reborn yet with some parts missing, even to the extent that I found myself a resident exile in this city. I am glad I am alive at this time, though four years ago I never thought I would make it this far. Along the way, the life project grew, slowly, but it grew nevertheless. And now, after so much time putting it off, trying to savor and recapture those that I will never again have, the bells have tolled. And I need no reminder that time is walking.

Just in case the writings would be bland, I am going to ask help from a couple of friends to create what I believe would be stunning separator pages for each chapters of the project. JeezusKrieste, Myotosai, LordAshe & DreamFilter, if you guys are reading this, you have a year to make about 3 variants ok? Lazarusmoth, I wonder if you would do the honor of writing an introduction of sorts, the kind that would serve as a mirror to what I would write myself…

[ T H E L I F E P R O J E C T ]

The Making of Bones:

The Life of J.K.R. Kanindot

Mothers – this is in honor and gratitude of my four mothers, and all those mothers who I have met along the way. With this, I somehow wish that I could give you a smile amidst all the tears that I caused you.

The Scent of Sisters – I have been blessed with so many sisters.

The Consistency of Love – Love unmasked and rediscovered.

The Chains of Brotherhood – Amidst all the bottles, the cigarettes and cups of black coffee.

The Sonless Father – this is self-explanatory, I guess.

The Making of Bones – a trip back to where it all began, when it all began, why and how everything began, before the end.

and

I Confess I Have Been Loved :

The Poetry Collection of Damon Steine

[-------- end --------]

And after all is said and done, I honestly don’t know what is going to happen. But then, there is still time, and with that I might just get lucky.

I sure hope so.

...........

Because I was taught to fashion words to be more than just a series of letters joined together, like carriages stringed and pulled forth by the train of our desires in the great railway of life.

Because I was able to discern that words become nothing more than just mere graffiti, more painful as an empty page is to a poet when they are bloodless, just mere outlines inscribed somewhere to lead someone else nowhere.

Because I have seen how words, brittle like dry sticks could serve logs feeding bonfires of madness, shame and passions.

Because words are the last to go, even in memory, I do not want to leave you replicas or forgeries. Because I cannot always be with you but only my words, they are fragments of who I am so that you will never be alone.

I am chasing many of my stray words. Lost as they are, those who would find them would also be so. And as they were born from me, so they should also die with me.

In moonlight or sunlight I wave my fingers, as if invisible tendrils connect my hands to my words I set forth to walk beside you. Remembered or forgotten by you, they know who they are, and will continue to do so, to endure the price of living, and that is dying with each and every moment. Like I do.

Because I am my words, so have I believed that you are also yours.

And I am waiting.

Mediocrity + Confession + Poetry: Your Solitary Hunt

I know it’s not a healthy habit, but I am fully aware of the “mediocrity” of my works. Well, most of them are, or so I tell myself. I am aware that even those that I deem strong enough to walk the open world on their own are revealed to be misshapen and malformed, as they are replicas of my soul. But that is ok.

I have lost track of the number of works great and small that I have written and left with the many women whom I have been with. It is my fervent wish though, that they still cherish those moments, even if it leaves the taste of ashes on their mouths.

I have never been fully aware of what power good or evil my so called poetry has brought forth in to this world. Many have complimented me, so much more than those who condemn me, and to batting an average of 6 out 10, I guess I could say that I am not doing that bad for an old guy.

I have been accused, and I confess to some extent, of using my poetry as mere bait, as traps. The funny thing is that those that I did fashion as baits and traps did not catch anything at all. Instead, it was the other works who were set out free to fly as birds do were the ones responsible of bringing back someone new to me.

I never really knew how powerful poetry could be, even my own. Even when I was found in the arms of a woman, whose very arms were brought to me by the wings of my free poetry, I really was without a clue as to the power of words, of creation.

That is, until I received my first poem.

This one comes from my brother, lazarusmoth, and as brothers are, he sees through the bone. And as competent as my brother is in his craft, as the poem below would show you, I and my craft being the theme of the poem affords me to have a smile on my face, that amidst the mediocrity of my own choosing, I am still worth something.

And now, the masterpiece:

Your Solitary Hunt

I remember the way you can sit down on the rough

steps and write your hunched verses,

the way each jagged stroke burns

black ink in the page,

paper trembling a staccato silence, a bird clasped

in the firm hands of a child,

fear in every heartbeat.

I remember the way you set your traps and stalk

every word, the way you lose the world

in your solitary hunt.

Spiral of predator and prey,

spilled blood, fire and pitchforks

in your poetry.

I remember your frantic gestures for a cigarette,

your eyes locked on the chase of wayward words,

fingers groping fire.

Notes from "Resident Exile" : My Chosen Poison

I guess this is something I have always known, buts it’s just that I never really looked it up.

Until now.

So, it happens that I have come to thinking, and realizing, that that which makes us sad are not those things we find distasteful, it is not those we deem as betrayals, or faults committed against us.

I have always been fascinated with people. I don’t know if this is something that usually happens to children, but as a child I have always been curious about how people go on with their lives, about how they interact with other people. You could say I found it all natural for I was there, surrounded by people I call family, each with their own distinct and varied characteristics, similarities and opposites, and yet they seem to get along well with each other.

And if there is something that could change life, then it would also be life itself, and that is a life of another’s.

It’s a whole different perspective when you open up to the possibilities of sharing life with someone else. As if not having the answers to the questions that we have in our own lives, letting someone inside could only make things even more complex, troublesome. And yet, with this complexities and troubles come the possibilities of something new, something that is not solely mine nor solely yours, but something we could call “ours”.

But as much as opening up life can be for good, there nevertheless is the possibility that it will end in misery and tragedy. And in this brief and human world, the possibilities become realities all too present until the last sunset of our eyes.

In the end of a life shared, they say there is the possibility for a new life to begin. I agree. But before these two separate and different lives, there is that space in between them. It does not belong to the past life or the future, but belongs only to itself.

There is so sadness like abandonment and betrayal. I have believed in this and lived with this kind of tragedy for so long. And to think that I was, somehow, wrong.

I have come to realize that it is not the abandonment or betrayal that is the reason for the concoction of different violent emotions swirling inside of me. It is not abandonment, nor betrayal nor faults committed against me that throbs like an invisible wound.

It is not abandonment or betrayal that is the cause of my sadness.

Rather, it is the persistent memory of all the good things there ever was, of all the laughter, of all the trials, of all those moments o knew that I was not alone. It was all those moments when I was happy, when life was not solely mine or solely of another’s, but a life that was ours that haunt me.

How ironic that it is happiness that is the source of my tears.

Because the memory of all those moments when my life was shared with another were the most fulfilling, and the truth of its coming to an end, of never being able to continue what was left off yesterday, of possibilities blown off, ahh, that is my poison.

Because even though things may go like the moons, the stars and the planets and comets all going through their orbit, and end does not always mean the possibility of something new being born, of something that would grow away from the ashes of yesterday.

Week Ends + Invitations + How to Make an Iligan Quilt + P.S.

Its Friday once again, and another week has passed by. The past 5 days have been grueling, but for some reason, I still could smile. Its not everyone who finds a job that they truly love. And it got me to thinking that jobs themselves can be categorized in some way as to for whom you do the work.

Working for the cause. Working for the person. Working for the money.

It would be sweeter if I could get the last one as a bonus, but having the first two is way worth it. I have always said that I love women, and now I’m not just talking the talk anymore. My boss, as well as my officemates, treat me like a little bro they have to take care of. I don’t really know until when I would be working here, but there is still a year to go from the deadline I set myself, a couple of things are still waiting to be accomplished, well, there is still time. I guess.

Friends have been continuing to pour their invitations to go places for work, all which I have politely declined. But the good thing is that my friends understand why I have to do this, why I chose to do this, and are indeed happy for me.

Brother Lazarus, here’s one for you. =)

I have walked away from so many things in my life, and thus have also been the recipients of walk outs, especially from those whom I wanted to stay. To all those women I loved and still love, thank you. I mean it.

It’s the weekend and yet there is no free day scheduled, save perhaps for Sunday (which is actually laundry day for me). The reason for this, the same reason why the week has been busy, is that there is an exhibition of quilts that are office is handling, and tomorrow is the big opening day.

Fiesta is just around the corner. But then I wonder where am I going to celebrate it?

P.S.

The last poem is a new one by the way, and I am still unsure if I was successful as to how I wanted it to come out. It took me more than an hour, and I don’t know honestly if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Well, for those who read it, thank you, and I would be grateful if you drop me a line of two.

Lights out.

Circa Ara - Poetry : Born Under

I have never been afraid of playing under the rain.

It was raining that night.

As a child alone in the safe dryness of my room,

I stretched my small hands outside the window

Where the wind lent their wings to the raindrops

Whom I waited for with my open palms

After I had learned not to trip over my own feet

Mamang told me I should go outside the garden

I should wait for the rain, she said

I should meet them, and play with them.

Thus, I began to discover a world born under the rain:

I met frogs who until then I only knew as the voices

Who kept long raucous conversations, especially during wet nights.

I met earthworms, farmers who travel

Short and slow to new lands

While the rain irrigated the dark gardens they toiled below.

I spied on solitary spiders between dry leaves,

Silent and still as if contemplating,

Sleeping perhaps, and dreaming of new designs to weave.

Playing with the rain, I discovered their solitude:

Unlike the light, who is like the wind

When the roam over my skin, rain drops fall solitary.

They greet me with caresses, sometimes with a nudge,

A poke, a slap, at times like an embrace,

Yet when joined together they form an entity so much

Like as if they were fragments of a personality.

Playing with the rain is like meeting a person

Whose raindrops are called doubts, fears, glances & smiles.

No one can really tell what the rain would bring,

Of what each of its drops could inscribe

In the pages of one’s memory, of realms

Born between the before and after its kisses:

For many it’s only a wetness to be wiped away,

Like coffee stains or a secret shame.

For others it’s only the teeth marks of the cold

On one’s flesh, whose outlines longs and remembers

The fires of a lost embrace.

Thus may be the reason why many

Would rather bask under the light.

To live their lives only to listen to stories

Or dreams about possible lives, or perhaps

Only to read in a poem about discovering a world,

A world born under the rain.

It was raining that night.

being sorry

(this was supposed to be my real entry until I “turned Japanese”)

The reason why I rarely say “im sorry” is that I know that there is nothing that my apology would do. Aside from that, “im sorry” is one of the most abused phrases in the world (I bet you know the 3-word phrase that must be the most abused of them all!). it has lost its meaning anymore, and I am not keen on using bland phrases. Duh!

Anyway, I do feel sorry, just like anybody else. You just have to see it from my sad eyes.

There. Im still hungry. Bye.

Turning Japanese

Tuning Japanese

“I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so”

- Turning Japanese, by The Vapors (1980)

Not much to do on weekends or on free time, so I “waste” it on watching episode after episode, title after title of anime series I pirate over the net.

Somehow, it feels as if am in Japan, considering I wait and watch for new episodes every week from the 5 or more titles I’m currently following.

But there is actually a good thing about watching anime. What would you expect me to do, watch all those telenovelas or horrible news on tv? Though speaking about news, I see that the Pope still don’t get it, hence the broadcast about or related to his apology about his recent blunder (the apology being a blunder in itself) is quite funny. No, its stupid. But since I am off the airwaves of both radio and tv, I have to settle to my modified entertainment system (courtesy of the city government hehehe)

I think I quite lost track. Anyway, the good thing about watching anime is that it is a good source for learning a new language. Hmmm, actually Im watching anime because it’s the better choice in my current status, and the thing about learning the Japanese language is for me to understand and enjoy the series that I am watching. Admittedly, having subtitles is good, especially with the quality of subbers out there, but somehow I would like to watch movies like I used to.

Anyway, im hungry now, and im off to enjoy the night and the holiday tomorrow watching the whole season of “wolf’s rain”. i know im not making much sense so thats why im outta here.

Circa Loco - Poetry: Open Doors

Open Doors


'Twas only when I no longer heard her voice
That I heard mine
Screaming her name
Kristine

And I wonder if she loves me still
As I have, and am and always will
And though I fear her fast fading echoes
I hold on to them like the air that I breathe
Whom without
my soul would choke
on the smoke of loneliness
and despair
I hold on to them like her voice that I remember
Her voice that was the warm embrace
From the coldness of this everyday winter

My thoughts fly,
As do my hopes, but not like before
Our silence seems to be closing
what were once
Open doors.

What the Pope said and Why I Left...

I wanted to keep myself mum about the grave and should I say stupid comments that the pope made which has triggered global response. And yet, when I think of it, it is things like this that serve as one of the reasons why I left the church.

Either you are in, or you are out, as the cliché goes. And I chose to be out of it.

I wonder what the pope was thinking when he made those comments. I mean, he was supposed to know better. Of course, many would say that he was just human. Yes he is human, and it is also for such reasons that I left too.

Humans do mistake. But just because you are a human being does it mean that you are licensed to make mistakes.

And as if quoting from a dead 14^th century emperor was not bad enough, the apology that the pope made only served to make things worst. If you are take a good look and use your gray matter to figure it out, the pope seems to be sorry for the reactions to his statements and not for the statements themselves.

Someone has to take responsibility somehow, and like it or not, the pope has a share for the violence that has sprouted around the world. And I wonder how is he going to make up for it. By mere prayers? I guess so.

If you are reading this far, and you are that kind who takes the faith as deep as you could, you might say that I am damned and I would be punished by God.

But then, I have always told my friends that God doesn’t give a damn if you believe in him or not, or if you pray to him or not. Your belief or disbelief does not change him. God does not need anything. That’s why he is God in the first place.

But then, a lot of people think and believe that they need God. And yet their belief does not change anything.

And why did I leave the church? Because it is a power structure, a control structure by human beings toward other human beings, a congregation of jackals and wolves clothed in sheep’s clothing, No, I take that back, worse than jackals and wolves.

To believe in a faith who has a leader like the current pope? Are you kidding me?

Notes: So It Must Be...

It is only fitting, and thus no reason for me to bawl over, that the fate of those who believe is a life that one must endure, a life that must be lived.

Even as a child, I have always believed most in the certainty of one, and that is me.

It is not that I shun the presence of those around me. Rather, it is when I started seeing the balance of hope and despair on those who love me that I vowed unto myself that I would always nurture the same balance that exist within me.

At times I try to remember when it began that I started believing and living a life wherein I knew with the utmost certainty, as a saint would believe in a god, that I was always to be alone.

It was not a life of shunning those around, as I have said, nor did it mean that they shunned me, for as I have also said, and I will always claim this, I have been loved to the levels many men would never know about. What it was, and I know this will always be, is about believing in myself, that I would matter, that I would be worthy even if I am to be judged from the scrutiny of my own brutal honesty.

It is about making the most about myself, for what could I share to you if I was nothing more than a facsimile of someone else, or just a cliché of a line, or just a cardboard character?

But then, intention and outcome, as has been pointed out to me, rarely go hand in hand.

And so it must be, that the fate of those who believe is a life that has to be lived.

Draft from the chapter "The Consistency of Love": Bleeding Poetry

I did not know I was bleeding poetry until she arrived that night, garbed in her white, led by drops of my verses to where I was.

I have always preferred the glow of the Moon, or if in her absence, the smiles of the stars. But the glare of the lamp mirrored from her eyes held me, reflecting into and deep beyond the hollow caves of my own eyes, deeper into me, until it felt warm.

She would have been a bloodhound on the third night, save for her voice, her smile and the way the light played with her eyes that made me wait for them so that they may play with my own.

I did not know she knew my pain and my shame even before she heard my voice, even before the fingers of her eyes have traced the surface and edges of my face that was and has always been and forever will be my mask.

She found me, bleeding of poetry from the wounds invisible as the ghosts that haunted me.

I found her, the woman whose eyes cupped the light and poured them into my own so that they may illuminate and reveal to her the map I charted.

She was never the Ice Queen they told me that she had been. Her voice was the wind that swayed me whenever she called my name, her touch sent my blood raging that my sad face remembered the shape and traced one smile after the other. Bleeding of poetry, I let my blood verses flow into her cupped hands, the same hands whose fingers traced and caressed the outlines of my scars.

But one could not and should not always bleed, even if it is poetry. And one could not and should not always drink, even if each drop serves to trace the path that would lead to where resides the face of mystery.

At times when I close my now lonely eyes, I remember when I listened to her heart that trembled in the wake of the tempest of our brief life. My chest was against her breast, my cheek pressed against her own as our tears found each other.

Separate tears that joined together fell alongside each other from two separate chins.

I do not know where she is now, or if she even remembers me.

She is gone, as I know I am away from her, as I always knew that we would be from the moment we arrived.

I no longer bleed poetry.


to I, who is along side J.

Deleted

Deleted

One of the lessons that I have taught myself is that acceptance is ultimately just a state of mind. Memories may abound, lingering and foaming up at odd and unexpected moments but then, as it was in the mind, in one’s memory that common and simple objects become defined to be so much more than just food for the senses, then so it must follow that it is also in the mind that they are to ultimately die, rot, and disappear.

But then, as I have also taught myself, I could be wrong.

Now, I wonder if it is the only way, that to pave the road and walls of acceptance in one’s mind, one should shatter the structures that exist in the real world, as if the tearing and cutting down of bridges and ties in the physical world would help and serve as the very materials for the building of the structures in ones mind.

I am no stranger to the currents and possibilities of human life, and the complexities that it can spawn when it sets its fingers and arms and legs to intertwine with another’s. And yet no matter how much I have taught myself, no matter what I have learned, for whatever they are worth, I still cannot fully immune myself from the actions of those with whom I have bound myself, especially when those bounds are made from the fibers of what it is to die intertwined with the beauty of how it is to live and love.

Odd, that the most painful experiences that I have had in this physical world are those moments that the five senses could not detect, and yet for some reason stains itself on one’s thoughts, horrible like blood being suddenly sprayed on my face.

I have survived the onslaught of fists and feet, their bruises absent, as if they never existed in the first place. And yet why can I not learn the lesson of how it is to be cold, to be immune once abandonment comes knocking on my door to keep me company?!

In this cyberworld that I have waited for, where my bones where partly made, there is something about being deleted that hurts unlike any physical discomfort.

I just got deleted. I just got abandoned. And yet I dare not turn the ice king in me who only waits for me to bow my head so he can take over.

I guess being deleted means as simple as that. Like garbage that gets thrown to landfills, we delete those that no longer matter to us.

And to think someone once said I was not thrash. But then, if there is something that I have also learned is that people lie, even in the midst of making love.

But of course this is only me, but if being deleted, if destroying the bridges would mean that I could gather the rubble as materials for the walls and roads of acceptance, then who knows, I might just teach myself that lesson.

Possibly.

Running Away + Hauntings + How to MAke a Bone

I came to this house after I ran away from the last one. I ran away because the last house was haunted.

It was not much, that last house that I had learned to call home. Made from wood, its walls where to thin too halt the raucous laughter of children making up games as they play, nor the sound of game cocks that the neighbors would spend time with more than they would with their children. On rainy nights, the winds would seep between the boards, an occasional drop or two coming in and finding me downstairs, on a bamboo sofa that I called my bed.

It was on this bamboo sofa that I half gave birth to something that died, and became a ghost.

I started running away at an early age. I was 10 when Mamang and I had one of the first of what would be a series of arguments. I cannot really remember what the argument was about, only that I felt alone, uncared for that when Mamang went to work, I began stuffing my school bag with clothes and some food stuff, locked the door, left the key on the bottom of the nearest flower pot and started walking away.

That day was one of the longest I ever spent. I found myself at the park in the center of the city, and there, after buying some bread from a nearby bakery, I opened my bag and brought out the books that I brought with me. Bread and books, those were what I devoured that day until a family friend found me and somehow tricked a young gullible child as I was to come home.

The next time I ran away home, I stayed away from home. It was not easy standing up on one’s own feet, but those days were also the days that I was most free. Together with two other friends who shared the same need for me to be away from the comforts of home, I discovered love, and tragedy, learned the art of betrayal, wild intoxicating sex on early mornings, survived 3 pairs of fist and legs. I was wounded. And yet I never let my head down.

The women of Cebu made me forget the one who abandoned me as they gave themselves to me in abandonment. And yet on the first morning of the new year with the sun waking up from her sleep of the old year, Cebu made me realize that no matter where you go, if what haunts you is inside your head, there will be no safe place to hide or find solace.

They say running makes for good exercise. I don’t run that much, but I could say that it helped in the making of bones.

I came to this house after I ran away from the last one. I ran away because the last house was haunted. There was a bamboo sofa. Before it became the haunting ground for a ghost, it was once alive. It breathed. It had a voice. It held kisses and embraces for me.

It did. It did. Until it somehow died. It would only be redeeming for me to say that since it was born from half of me, then half of the hands that murdered it was also mine.

The deaths of memories are unlike human bodies. They do not rot; they do not stain the air. They do not being flies buzzing around. There are no bodies. But there is a presence, as if somehow, invisible as it may be, something clings between the folds of space, thin like powdered ashes and fallen stardust, falling and settling themselves between the flesh and one’s skin.

I came to this house after I ran away from the last one. I ran away because the last house was haunted.

But all of that running has helped me make my bones.

I came to this house after I ran away from the last one. I am still haunted.

And yet should you try to seek for me, I will be where I am now.

Sent as Attachments

Attachments

Its not actually disturbing or a mystery to me, and yet there is something about attachments to things that bind my thoughts to it.

Of course it is all too human to have attachments to things, and it doesn’t mean that a person who is such is materialistic. Technically perhaps, yes, I am “materialistic” in some way, but I am all too sure that is not a bad thing.

Of course, how I wish I could say that it is a happy thing…

I fully understand that my attachment to these objects stems from the simple truth that these very objects are in more ways than one attached to another person, and thus serves as a bond that would always remain as long as thought can remember. Memories somehow are not enough, as I have discovered. There is something about trying to recollect memories that somehow I am not too sure if they are really fragments of my memories or just plain dream pieces of my desires. And so since memory is not enough, I hold on to these objects, to these things.

And I guess I should also say that these objects also hold me onto something.

I know that things and objects are meant to fade away, as all things that begin are destined to end. And yet, I am somehow caught in the middle of the door: outside is the place to let go and inside is, well as you have guess, the place where we should keep ourselves, of staying, of not letting go.

There are a couple of objects that I value, whether they still serve their purpose or not: letters that spoke of a true love before they became lies, an ordinary paper bag made priceless by someone’s handwritten message, empty pens that I have used all these years, and photographs. Of course, there are those that are yet serving their purpose, and it is actually the lost of such things that haunt me somehow.

And so, a couple of days ago, I asked a good friend for an opinion concerning my attachment to things. I know I am being honest when I say that I am worried that these objects that I value might be taken for granted by those who hold them now. I just don’t know if I am being perfectly honest, but I am honest about my worries. My attachments to these objects makes me want that they stay with me until their last moments, a thought that I find tragic and poetic considering I can see myself only with myself until my own final moments.

My friend told me that I should believe in people, that those that I value will also be valued by those who hold them now. I wanted to believe that, but then I just cant forget that once upon a time, I entrusted a compilation of my earliest works to someone who brought it with her half a world away and ended up telling me that she threw them away.

The works in those compilations are still priceless to me even as they are lost. No, not because they were great works but because though they were mediocre, they were parts of me, attachments of my own person, of my own soul, if I can say that I have a soul.

But then again, I guess the real lesson about attachments is found in the great lessons that I taught myself:

To be attached, one must also learn to let go.

from a warm-up session

.

..

...

Our tomorrow is a solace

Waiting for us after the borders of darkness.

And the path that leads there is laid

In star dust wishes and jagged edged truths.

Our tomorrow is a beautiful dream,

Not the only one and yet like no other-

With only the darkness in between us

Whose waters froth and foam, wave and sleep.

...
..
.