The Greenhouse
Lovers made you into cotton candy clouds and strawberry sunsets. Craving indulgence in the sinful syrup that drips from your thighs but do they know that the nectar they dream of is the venom that’s polluted the minds of adulterine lovers?
You lure them away with promises of juicy twilight and honeysuckle haze.
You laugh for the encore as they fall to their knees, begging for devotion. This is what you want to be, flower? No, sweet flower, that's not you, and people like him saw that. He saw that underneath the compulsive lies was a prize.
He saw that beneath your ruin was Eden, and greed could not consume him the way it consumed the rest. He did not beg for you... he studied you. He watched the way you thrived and built you a greenhouse to keep you alive, Flower.
Who’s gone the distance to love you so dearly? Was it the woman who suffocated you? Or was it the man that lied to you? It must've been the woman who broke you.
But wait
It wasn’t
Abandon them, flower, for each of them carries their own poison, each bringing you closer to a lonelier death than the last.
Live in the greenhouse, sweet flower, for here you are transcendent.
just another day at work
His mind is clouded with random thoughts, but his hands kept on with the tasks given, by his side what seemed to be an unending pile of documents. Minimal of what is actually assigned to him, mainly of files just pushed onto him, even at the last minute right before the office hours end.
And he typed. And typed. And typed.
As if hypnotized to reach the end of the line.
Until everyone else had left already.
Yet he remained unfazed, as if the microcosm he lives in is within the span of the cluttered desk and tiny cubicle. By the time the clock hit five in the morning, he had finally printed the last set of paperwork, which he had placed on top of the team leader’s table.
Few stretches and he started moving again, the same random thoughts resurfacing, towards the cold stairway. In a few minutes, he reached the rooftop. By then his thoughts had molded into a pitch blank canvas, as if reminding him that he had finally reached the end.
At last, he reached the end.
By then, the city’s just starting to wake up, but standing by the ledge, he just started to close his eyes. Then it was the morning breeze embracing him like a cool blanket, and by the next moment that his eyes had opened, he has already laid down on the asphalt road, reminding him of the tough bed at his rented apartment, staring straight into the dimly lighted sky.
And upon seeing him, the company would start preparing to replace the lost spot, checking through the pool of hoping applicants. His colleagues would see the documents and go on with the meetings, presentations, and chit-chats. And a different face would then be facing his computer, seated on his swivel chair, and take-over his tasks.
Until another mind gets clouded with random thoughts, with the hands still on the keyboard, by the side a pile of documents. Mostly from others, a trifle, the actual work.
And they will type. And type. And type.
As if hypnotized to reach the end of the line.
Seashells…
From Timbuktu
To Nubia
Sally promised
Great prosperity
For all tribes
In each ancient
Advanced civilization
With folks that had
Such vast wealth
Then they unknowingly
Gave their power to Sally
Who handed them seashells
Promising them a much
Greater treasure/reward
Alas, that was all for nichts!
The villages had a loss
For quite a vast majority
Of their natural beauty,
Their precious minerals,
& stones, too, wasted away
For a meager price of seashells!
#Seashells...
Nov. 30, 2022.
Wōdnesdæg.
Split
Cranberry pops
on eager lips
beneath a sun
beaten canopy
Rushing leaves
softly hum
a mournful carol
for a present misgiven
But then, in the
cool rush of night
A star hints
at the wrong path
lights twinkle
sinfully, deceptively
The birth of knowledge,
hard-earned
Canes of sugar
crack and rot
sickly sweetness
pungent in the dark
Virgin once wrapped
in tinsel and light,
transmuted non-believer-
birthed within the
fickleness of devotion