The Face.

Now let's try to hide behind the face, the face that never blinks, laughs or cries. The face that is forever young with a marble white complexion. It has no real eyes, just two black holes to look out of. Let's hide behind the face, let's go deep, deep beneath the face where the world can't find us, where it's warm, where you can hear the rush of real blood, and not the rasp of false, slithering skin, away from the glint of sheathed claws.

The world cannot touch us here.

This face is a very public face. It smiles and laughs at the right moments, and when the time comes to mourn the holes that the world thinks are eyes leak salt water. But they are not real tears, because real tears contain a pinch of Sorrow. What hides underneath has no control whatsoever over this public face, because what it wants does not agree with the public face, and thus is suppressed. Whatever hides beneath is very lonely, insecure, and very afraid that one day the protective face would be taken away, and that it would be left to be exposed to the world. It has lost it's identity to the face, and now the face is it's identity. It's name no longer exists; it is just a Lie, having lost itself in the labyrinth of rules that govern the face. Illogical, restraining rules that drive even the best minds to madness.

This madness is just barely detectable, being a fairly subtle form. It manifests itself in various ways. While maintaining a fairly normal front (noting of course that in this context, normal should be taken to mean the situation of the majority group), the persona is free to operate using several different profiles which are better known as alternative masks. However this often leads to a loss of identity. The original self, if it even exists still, can no longer be discerned from the scores of other profiles and faces that other people see. Each one is crafted uniquely, like a fingerprint, in reaction to something or someone. Each time something sparks off a new reaction, yet another facet is formed. Like The Mask. Except these can never be removed...just changed and added to. And more is not necessarily better.

The more layers, the deeper the original self hides. And the persona dies, while the mask lives on.

I Love the Rain.

I love the rain. And rainy day type music. It's the kind you can walk around in, even when you're all alone in a dim park with a playground, the kind, you know, you can see the raindrops in the lamplight. The sad kind of music which has just one title: "Life". The kind that you listen to with big headphones, and you could do a mad dance...there's nobody to care or judge. And you feel in that little park, in that dim yellow light, all alone, you could melt away into the dark, just fade away, and nobody would know. Just the near silence that's left behind, and the little you-sized vacuum is slowly filled with more rain and dark.

And the sound, the sound of the rain.

The Night of Lies

A man walked into a masked ball. A stranger in town, he thought he might take his time to join in the local festivities. Like any masked ball, it was held in a large hall, with music and dancing. Everyone was dressed up in ornate costumes. It was a night where you could be anything you wanted to be, whether it was a character from a fairy tale or a famous historical figure. Or just take it as an excuse to be blindingly beautiful. Coloured figures whirled around the dance floor, faces all hidden behind gorgeous masks. A man could never identify his best friend by looks alone, for the entire world changed its face on this night. Everyone could dance freely, without fear that perhaps their partner was an enemy waiting with a hidden dagger or a jealous rival, because no one was recognisable by their outward appearance.

Many of those who went for the ball would spend many a day, even weeks, in advance, planning and designing their entire outfit, including elaborate headpieces that were integrated into fancy masks. Nobody would ever wear their costume twice, for it was deemed unoriginal to do so, and besides, the entire point was to be unrecognisable. Sometimes entire fortunes were spent on this attire, for the event was but one chance in the year one could play at make believe and forget themselves, a single chance to do whatever one pleased at a party and not be judged by others. Most importantly, it was the Night of Lies, so named for obvious reasons, the only chance in the year to fake things, to lie, and get away with it. Anybody could attend, so long as they had a costume and an invitation which could be procured, very simply, from people handing them out on the streets and in the taverns or inns.

Greeted at the door by an attendant with the head of a donkey, the man was asked to produce his invitation. When presented with it, the attendant could not help but compliment, "Sir! What a mask! What an exquisite thing! What skill, what thought must have gone into such an item." All the man could say in reply was a 'But', for the next moment a beautiful creature with a cat's face whisked him off in an energetic dance not unlike a waltz. Once again he was complimented for his mask. "What creativity you have put into your outfit, my friend! Such detail and wit! Ah, this is a creation that must be shared, to inspire us all to do the same for ourselves next time!" Before he could respond again with a 'But', his voice was caught by the air as the dancers switched partners in a crazy dance they called Change. Dancers would change partners when the music changed.

Partner after partner, the man was spun around the ballroom were equally eager to comment on his mask as the donkey-head and cat-face had done, and partners were changed always before he could respond, as if the music had some cruel conspiracy to never allow him to speak. Soon it became such that every drumbeat, every musical note had the intent to quieten him, as if they knew what it was he was going to say, something so terrible as to go against the ethics of such a party. But of course it was inevitable that the song should end, to allow weary dancers a drink before they rejoined the throng.

The man found himself next to Cat-Face again. The feline features stretched themselves into a grin, and a pink mouth opened to inquire, “You were about to speak before. It has been such a pleasure meeting you.” A hand extended as a gesture of social greeting. A hand taken, and promptly shaken. “I was just saying what a wonderful mask you have got on. It has the make of a great craftsman! You must have paid a great deal to have it made.” The face seemed to turn green with envy, but at once swiftly changed to reflect a grin. “You were about to say?”

“You say how wonderful my mask is. But, I am not even wearing one.”

The Bubble

I live in a bubble.

A bubble is not like a box, in the sense that it is round. Spherical. But. A bubble is like a box, in the sense that it is closed in. After all, it is just a sphere of air, a little atmosphere I call mine. You can see right through it, and on the surface, you can see many colours of the rainbow swirling madly.

Undoubtably, it is a bubble.

It is easy to feel claustrophobic in such a bubble. After all, there is only so much air inside it, and no way to add more. A bubble's life is short lived. Either something from the outside pops it, or the air inside leaks out and it slowly fades away, as bubbles tend to do.

Sometimes due to its incredible lightness, the bubble can drift high into the sky. But a bubble can only take so much pressure. When it gets too high internal pressure exceeds external pressure. The air is thin up there, and the bubble cannot exist under such circumstances.

And then.

I fall.

I have seen such things occur.

It is very high up, mind you, so inevitably...well, that ending is obvious.

It is a lonely life inside a bubble. There is the common misconception that we are flighty in our thoughts. No, but everyone knows that the bubble people are never truly happy. We go with the wind, and if it doesn't suit us, well, too bad then.

You can get used to living inside a bubble.

But then it depends. How long can you live inside a bubble, until the time comes for it to expire? I think, that by the time you have gotten used to bubble life such as I, that well, all you have to do is

Reach out your finger,

Like so...

And touch...

the..


bubble



.


And as I fall all I can think about are the swirly colours, dancing madly on the surface of the bubble.

They know best of all what it is like to live in a bubble.

For who knows best, than a bubble itself?

The Box

I live in a box.

It is easy to tell that it is a box because it has a cuboid shape, six faces, and lines perpendicular to each other.

It is a box.

A box with doors, windows, a floor, four walls, and a ceiling, all various colours and patterns to suit what doors, windows, floors, walls and ceilings ought to look like. You may call it a room, but I call it a glorified box. It is a box, all the same.

It is easy to feel closed in in such a box. Even with the windows and doors. You feel like you are literally boxed in, like each six faces of the cuboid are suspended in the middle of nowhere, and closed tight so there is no way out. The doors and windows are only paint, everyone can fake anything with paint nowadays. And even if you could find a way out of the box you would fall into the black nothing that surrounds it.

It is better to feel closed in everyday than to fall into black nothing. In that way, I begin to like my box. It is a solid geometrical shape of security and seclusion.

I know I am alone in my box.

Because after all, a box is still hollow inside.

And no matter what you do to it, fill it with objects, add artificial light to make it look like day, play the sounds of the outdoors, the smell of existence...it is still a box. And I am still alone.
People talk of living in bubbles. I talk of living in boxes. After all, bubbles burst eventually, or if you're underwater they rise to the surface and the little sphere of air inside is free. But in a box, you are trapped. Bubbles are aerodynamic and light, they are for the ones who still dream about a better world. But a box is not aerodynamic. It is nowhere near aerodynamic. According to one of Newton's Laws and those funny physic's diagrams, there is always friction between the box and the ground, and there is always the force keeping the box on the ground, and another that keeps the box from moving. If it moves at all, it will stop eventually.

At most, my box can rock from side to side.

It doesn't get very far.

That is because, in case you haven't realised, it is a box. And boxes cannot move by themselves. Even me, stuck here inside, cannot get this box moving.

Everyone lives in boxes, unless you're lucky enough to live in a bubble. The bubble people are not entirely happy, and that's why they dream of something better. The box people are completely content with living in an immobile box. And so they are happy. Or so they think.

Happy people are hiding something.

But not everyone knows that.

When the bubbles pop and you fall, at worst you end up with a few broken bones, and at best you get a couple of bruises. But when the box burns,

I die.

The Leaving.

The morning air was cold and grey, but in a familiar kind of way, like the cool touch of a finger on a cheek in the morning. The otherwise monotonous air is ripped by the harsh calls of mynahs, those inconsiderate birds.

Suddenly, a brief wash of water splashes out into the nearby drain with a smack and a clatter, shaming the mynahs into silence. They flee from around me as the water runs it's course. But as soon as the streaming flow has slapped its way down, it stops moments later, leaving ripples and mossy mouldy cement damp and ever thirsting. All is silent. Dark birds fly overhead in straggly branches. The leaves are silent on their branches; there is no wind that moves them.

Scattered around my feet are white-winged seeds. Pale they are, and pointlessly fall on hard black road. Unless some friendly breeze disperses them to more hospitable ground, their purposes will be in vain. Yet knowing the laws of nature they are but collateral damage.

A sharp caw breaks the quiet veil that had previously settled. A crow lurks unseen. I eye a tall clump of greenery. It's in there, somewhere. It caws again, a grating, black noise. A distant rumbling hum touches the edge of my consciousness. I look up: it's time to go.

Poem: Today as Usual

Passive.

Somebody annoyed me today
but

It's okay.
I guess I'm happy.

Some lesson was hard today
but

It's okay.
I guess I'm happy.

I've got a couple of bruises
I ache inside and out.
It's been a down day
And there's still a long day
ahead.

I'm a little lonely
Inside

But still...
I guess
I'm happy.

Back home

My bible seemed to wait for me
And then I let God take the lead

And now

I know I'm happy.

Sketch.

(Darkness, except for a little bit of lighting reveals the faint outlines of two figures, face to face, with one of them with it's back to the audience.)

You know what? Nothing feels real anymore.

Oh stop being emo.

Can't help it.

Shut up, you KNOW you're perfectly capable.

I'm not.

Oh get real.

Nothing's real.

You know very well that it's not true!

What?

You heard me.

No, I mean, what's not true?

The fact that nothing's real. Stop being an idiot.

Am not.

Are too.

(silence)

Whatever.

You only say that because you don't understand the point.

Which is?

You know very well what I mean.

Fine. This whole school crap is killing me.

No, you're just not trying hard enough.

But I AM!

Don't give me that crap.

Shit you.

You know swearing will get you nowhere.

The world's too happy.

And you have a problem with that? You aren't even being relevant. Stop changing the topic.

There IS no topic.

Don't give me that.

I'm not giving you anything. Never have, never will.

Oh and I suppose you're satisfied with that, then. Happy with being perfectly mediocre.

...I never said that.

Then? What are you doing? Sitting around, doing nothing, feeling sorry for yourself?

Am not.

Say what you want. It's your call.

You don't understand, do you? Everything comes so easily to you. Easier said than done, you hear? Do you even know what it is that I've stupidly put myself through? Putting others before self? Never being able to say no? Trying not to compromise on anything and ending up failing in everything? I try too damn hard, that's what, and I've got nothing. Nobody really gets it, I don't know how to make people see it, and I am tired.

Sleep, then.

(mocks) SLEEP THEN. So when someone says they're tired it always means in the physical sense, doesn't it. Life's so black and white for you. You don't GET IT.

I think...I do.

Tch. Yeah right.

No, I think...I really do. I've...been there.

What makes you think I'll believe that?

You can believe what you want. Do what you want. I no longer have a part in this.

Oh really? And how is that possible, now? You can't very well tear yourself in two.

(sighs) You're right. I can't. But you know what I mean. You can't go on like this. You can't. You have to snap out of it. Now, before it's too late. Stop dreaming and come back to earth.

(Lights brighten to reveal not two figures, but a lone seated figure, facing a large mirror.)

Heat

A dedication to the horrible heat of the afternoon, which caused my brain to go into spontaneous combustion.

***

It was hot.

So hot that everything seemed to be a warm, bright orange in the heat. The wooden floor was unpolished and worn, yet that too seemed to flow and swim like a viscous mixture of hot brown mud, boiling beneath my feet. The air was still. Thick and still. I could hear my heartbeat echoing around my head, damp and muffled. The humidity seemed to soar with every second, and it seemed as if a fog had fallen over everything, wet and corrupting. There was no breeze, but the cream coloured blinds tapped softly in the silence. The distant tinkle of the bell on my dog's collar seemed even further away than just the kitchen. The trees outside were still and quiet, as if silenced by the extreme heat. There were no birds, except one lone crow, fat and shining from scavenged meals. Everything turned to a blur. My glasses were somewhere around, but in this heat my mind felt like it had melted away, and I couldn't be sure. Couldn't be sure of anything.

In a drugged state I clambered back into bed. It was too hot to do anything, even to breathe sent a hot rush of thick air into my lungs. My eyes hurt. Everything was too bright...too bright to see...to think...

The welcome cool of the evening found me fast asleep and covered in sweat.

You Just Had To

I wanted to stay here
My friends were warm and kind.

You just had take me away, didn’t you?

I wanted to stay at home
And watch the rain slip down the window panes
I wanted to witness the cleansing of the world

You just had to drag me out to school, didn’t you?
All you wanted was grades.

I wanted to be five years old again
To be carefree again
To be unfettered by knowledge
Just like a child running barefoot in the grass
I wanted to be that.

You just had to impose yourself on me, didn’t you?
You didn’t like the idea of an individual,
All you wanted was for me to be a mini-you.

I wanted to be myself
To be different from you
Not another you
But a me
I wanted to be free from you

You just couldn’t let go, couldn’t you.
You thought that I should always stay home.
You didn’t like the idea of me being free.
All you wanted was for me to obey.

And it was cold and rainy and dark all around.

But you just had to bring the extra coat
Even when it was pouring outside
Even when you were sick yourself
You just had to put your arm around me
And hand me a tissue and say, “Here, blow.”
Like I was a child again.

You just had to, didn’t you.

***

NB: This poem is not about anyone in particular, rather it is aimed at portraying the understanding that a child comes to about his/her parent in life. In a sense it is a little about me discovering another side of my mother that I never knew existed.

This poem was written as part of an exercise that my literature teacher conducted in class to demonstrate the concept of writer's style, or technique, as it were. We were given a short while to write it, and for a moment I considered copying something from here to submit, so I could slack off for ten minutes or so. In the end, I decided to write something proper and here it is. Enjoy! (Incidentally this was chosen to be published in the school's literary compilation. *grinz*)

Get up, and Go.

They just went. Left. With instructions, to take care of this and that matter. And you are left with...what?

No choice.

***

So they have decided to come back. Oh to be at that leisure, unfettered by anyone's commands. To be allowed the right to just take off and go, without bringing baggage or leaving a note.

Nobody likes to be left behind like the child who knows but has no voice to speak. To be patted on the head and given a treat to disguise undercurrents that are only too obvious.

Do they not know the adverse effects this has on even the strongest of men? Abandonment and a feeling of being, somehow, not good enough. Not deserving of whatever it was that someone else got, and knowing no reason why, except that one is, to put it bluntly, not good enough. Again and again.

Change is called for.

But what? And how? What other factors might be drawn into this web of equations that always devise ways to trap and delude and complicate. The human mind is a black hole unto itself, feeding upon every thought until there is nothing left but shadow.

Unless.

There is yet hope from the sources, the roots of our being.

Something stirs inside, an as yet flightless being that strives to stretch its unborn wings.

To get up.

And go.

To leave everything behind like an old skin that serves only as a bitter memory of what once was, like the scab that grows back and refuses to heal. There was only bitterness there.,br>
Was.

And now?

A yawning white chasm opens up like a book. The pen is in your hand. Now is your chance to change. The beginning of a new chapter, a new journey.

Change.

Just get up.

And go.

Observations of Environment I

The last drops of tea slowly turn cold in the artificially cooled air of my room. I can anticipate the bitter tannin taste this will have when I drink it, more tea in it than milk and sugar now. The cup sits silently on the wooden table. I hear the sonds of a game and typing in the background. My diary is balanced across my knees. My stomach is churning from the cold tea. It's been sitting here all afternoon, and all evening. It's dark. All lights are off save a small black desk lamp, which happens to be from Ikea. I am currently seated on a small blue plastic chair, which is more suited for a child than a person of my size. It's been in my family since I was small enough to use it, and I remember using it as a tool of violence against my siblings when we fought. I've long grown out of that. I've got plenty to do. Even with this feeling of restlessness, I've achieved everything and nothing. Nothing being something that's socially significant. Everything being something that's personally significant. Of course the two do cross at certain points, but it's easier to say "everything and nothing". Though, it's more like "everything and nothing and sometimes in between" which has a kind of rhythm to it. It's like at school, where I know everyone and no one. And sometimes, in between.

Thoughts in Rain

The rain keeps falling, a proper deluge that dims and blurs and yet...cleanses. Thunder drums to the steady beat of the rain, rain that can be like darts and bullets and also knives. Rain that hurts. A cold, thin gloom sets itself upon the world when it rains. Car splashes, coloured umbrellas, other sights and sounds are out despite the rain. The world moves on in the rain, unfazed and indifferent. Nature is losing her touch here, among civilizations where concrete and oil are king. So it is for me, I must go places even in the rain. But a lonely taxi ride to my destination prompts thougts. A mess and tangle of thoughts that confuse and exasperate and so much more, that cannot be put into words...but for two:

Human Nature.

This strange and wonderful thing. Good and evil. How complicated it is, that even we who are humans are at a loss to understand it. Why we are who we are. Why we do what we do. How we work, what makes us tick. What makes us laugh, cry and sing, sometimes all at once!

How we are all social creatures, deep down inside. Even the most antisocial teenagers are the ones most in need of company. How we all need to work. Not for money, but for the deep passion and need for a purpose inherent in every human being. And all these among other things, so many other things we can only begin to speak about, the surface of which we can only hope to touch briefly...

My train of thought is interrupted by the taxi driver.

I pay, and walk off into the world.

The Prodigal Child

I'm a cheater and a liar
I'm a downright damn denyer
I'm a so-screwed-up-in-sider
That doesn't give a damn.

I'm a person in transition
The back way: No Admission
There's only one decision
Only one line to take.

I'm coming from the darkness
Released from the tight harness
No longer tied up and alone
I'm finally coming back home.

Untitled Thoughts (Cont'd)

And here again how tempted I am to return and rewrite and rephrase and redo and edit it all and change it all but then I stop and

think.

How that's how life is because you can't change it and nobody can turn back time or relive anything again you can't always be looking

back.

It's sad but true yet how much I long for the past how much I want to rewrite some parts of my life how much really I want some things to be so very different from how they are now and how desperate I want it to be so and when I come face to face with the facts how it overwhelms me those facts how they overwhelm me and even though I may overreact or be dramatic it is how I am sometimes even though I may be that way how true it is the way those facts affect me.

How they affect the way I live I love I laugh I listen I lie I lack I am.

And all these thoughts they come again and again in refreshed waves bringing new thoughts I must write down for my own sanity's sake even as the world is watching me weighing whispering wondering wearing away.

And I cannot seem to stop these thoughts they just come without rhyme or reason without punctuation in a kind of strange rhythm that is the rhythm of life it goes up and it goes down that's just the way it is that's how it is and we must live with it in sickness in health in dark and in light in this situation and that

we must live with it.

Live with it or perish.

Untitled Thoughts

Sometimes I wonder about myself and how I am the way I am and how life is the way it is and how everything just is and was and probably will be or even never be.

I think,

How sometimes I get into a total screaming-inside kind of mess and how I get out of it and how that's really how life is and how I manage life at all and how I get through it.

There's a lot of hows.

And then,

There's how I am with this person and that and how it all works and how the world works with it and how the world might be without it and there's more hows for you.

And again and again,

The whys of the hows and the hows of the whys and such strange things that go on around me that feel like I don't know what's going on but really everyone has to go through them too and isn't that interesting.

My mind does wander from the clickety-clack of typing to the hard skin of my feet and the sounds of the air-con and the sound of silence which is also the sound of night and not just the sound but also the smells like the smell of before during after the rain the smell of tap water the personal smell I associate with someone and not just the smell but the taste of blood how metallic it is from cracked dry lips and the taste of other things how it is with me because of how I think of them and not just the taste but also the feel of plastic keys the feel of skin the feel of cold and more than the feel and smell and taste and sound more than all these is the sight and how the light falls just so and the shadow of a hand or any object really and how everything can be so ugly or so beautiful and in the end.

How it all goes together.

And the source of the inspiration is not just external stimuli oh no it is of the heart and the soul which yearns to write it is the passion which springs from within it is all of these and more which trigger the urge to just write and write and write and write and write and never

stop.

How everything seems to fall in place but in reality things don't work that way.

How in the quiet of the night

things

just come to mind.

And how I can put me inside something to get something else and take me out of something and get yet another thing.

And so many other random things that just flow and flow without ebbing this unending stream of emotions and words that just

COME.

And they never go away until your fingers at the keys are exhausted and your mind is finally empty and your heart is placid and still.

And then the sorrow comes, when the joy of writing diminishes and fades

till next time,

when the muse comes again in the middle of the night.


























And how strange it is.

Just when I think I am done there seems to be more and more and more to say and then I just

forget.

All of it.

And the window closes and opens and closes and opens and things go in and out and time passes like it always does never stopping and there is always

always

something to say.

Even when I need to leave when my head is addled and tired there is still so much to express that is crying out be written!

And we, we who were cast out among the ashes, cry out and hope for salvation.

U turn

I went down the road
Mashed a toad
Realized
I couldn't turn back.

Mumbled a prayer
Seeya la'er
Hoping that
I wouldn't crack.

Hole in toad.
Hole in me.
I felt the load.
I couldn't see.
Tried to let go
With no avail.
Hopelessly so
I weep and wail.

Realized

The only way out
Was not, in fact,
to scream and shout.

The hole was there
The load was not
If I took it to God
It would soon be forgot.

The hole would be whole
If I took the turn
Back down the road
And the sin I spurn.

***

How true this is to life at the moment! And life at all times...for that matter.

The Crop

Loneliness is the seed
From which sprouts a dead weed.
One can't live on memories alone.
They curl bleak and brown
Echoing the sound
'Cross the dust and the land wind-blown.

What was once green
Has now turned to mean
And greying, flailing, detached, roots.
What I feared the most
Nothing to boast
Is slowly turning to wilted shoots.

Tried to feed the hunger that
brought pain like rolling thunderclaps
With materials borne of the earth
Forgot the roots of my own birth.

Drop by drop. Sweat (tears?)
Waters the dust, clearing fears.
Away! you demons! Corruption clots.
So I might bring life back to my plots.

***

I felt empty inside, and I tried to fill it with the warmth of company. I did not realize that though company is an honourable thing, it is only God's love that can fully fill that void.

To think it never occurred to me earlier.

(read my personal blog: this entry, for additional explanation.)

Thanks goes out to Charmaine Han who inspired the third line of this poem. When we are truly alone, it is only our best friends who can show us God's love.

Through a Child's Eyes.

I was just standing there on the boardwalk with my camera when he appeared. Right over there, by the wooden deckchairs. Like a fairy in his water-wings he flits by, touching the wooden poles of the makeshift shelter out of innocent, childish curiosity. Losing his balance in the soft loose sand he stumbles with a little giggle. I capture his image; a still figure caught in time by a lens. Everything seems to amuse him; a paper wrapper blowing by on the wind, or even the rustling of the palm leaves far above his sandy head. He gazed after the wrapper briefly, and suddenly he was gone as quickly as he had appeared, like a dream; a memory. In the distance I thought I could see his shadow, but it was too hard to tell.

For me he had been a symbol of a time far behind me, a fleeting childhood that now seems to be but a dream, obscured by the sands of time. It's hard to think of life as being any different, but yet there it was, memories of the soft sand beneath my small feet, of waves that teased the shore, and booming ships in the distance. Now I am taller, more confident. The innocence is gone, and the world is an ugly place to be in. But sometimes that childish curiosity returns, and the world looks so beautiful.

Washed

In the tumult of emotions
All senses are lost
In the sea of misty grey.
Nothing is constant here.
In this realm, feelings
Eddy around the heart
Ripples that sting and bruise
Sour acid regurgitated
The foul taste of loss.
Loss of the intangible
The immaterial
The irreplaceable.

You.

Things always clash here.
Nothing is sound.
We are all the same:
The like poles of two magnets.
Both missing one other...
The pole that keeps us
Together as one.
Without it I am empty
A ghost of myself
A mere image.

The roaring, changing tides
Wear me out, grain by grain.
The feelings I live by
Lost beneath the sand
Where the bottom feeders
Feast upon the remains
Until nothing is left
But the musical tragedy
Played out by the
Omnipresent waves.