CHRYSALIS
SUNDAY CAME HOME LATE.
Slowly, thoughts from beyond soar,
NOT ANOTHER NOVEMBER SICK CALL.
then flowers wither. SMOKING
ITS ASHES IN MARLEY?S MORNING REGGAE,
Its beauty unfolds like a Utopian dream.
I MUMBLED BLASPHEMIES INTO THE BLUE.
Yet, your haven bleeds?
FOR TOMORROW SPELLS A DEJE?VU SO LENNONISH,
Were you once a prey of ire
THAT BLESSES THE PISCES IN ME TO FLUTTER ITS WINGS.
heeding mirthly to yield for darkness?
NOW, IT ENTOMBS A DOWNFALL LIKE A THIRD-WORLD VODKA HANGOVER,
But as your fate echoes, it was a whirling void of emptiness.
COCOONED IN MY DEEPEST ENTITY.
Butterflies are dead.
YET, I WAS ALIVE…
Alive.
(***a poem by ahmad and moi, one lazy sunday afternoon in my apartment….words in capslock,by Ahmad. mine yung hinde) 12/12/01
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