foolish

soft susurrus sighs
valorously vibrant, veil
lewd lies with lilacs
fragranced flattery foaming
tongues tease with tales
entrapping efflorescing emotions
whimsical wisdom wasted

It is what it is

Now is it, really?
When in distress, this is perhaps the least comforting explanation for what has occurred. A twist to saying that what happened indeed did happen, and not much can be done to reverse it. The vacuity of this statement comes from, not only the fact that it states the obvious, but also, the attempt to diminish the value of your apprehension, fretfulness over this something. The foremost issue is not to define the occurrence, but the consequences/solutions/problems of such an occurrence.
It is is undoubtedly what it is.

a meeting

our meeting was so brief,
a flicker between the blades of a whirring fan.
I hear you marching in the back of my mind
across meadows and in between dreams:
dim dreams and muted mumblings

let's imagine life

as a silky, sweet, soundless
rose
always in love
forever aiming for the sky.

soft caresses leave petals behind

Insomnia and Death

Sleep has long been perceived as a metaphor for death. Just as Hamlet blurs the lines between death and sleep while describing his anguish over his father’s murder:
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause
When contemplating suicide, Hamlet conflates sleep and death.
I recently read the article “failing to fall” by Siri Hustvedt, that led me to trace back my first pseudo-insomniac fit—conscious and somnolent. I was perhaps seven years old, when hanging clothes rustled in the dark, which triggered images of shadows with twisted faces emerging out of the dim light creeping out of the closet door. My imagination ran and I could not catch it until the break of dawn and the cock-a-doodlings came alive. Thankfully, my imagination decided to rest in my dreams. My next encounter with insomnia occurred when my family and I arrived to Canada; I was around the age of nine, almost ten. What triggered my insomnia then was a fear of death, albeit not my own death, but that of a family member. I had to ensure that everyone was asleep before me. But once they had fallen asleep, I would fear that they were sleeping without dreams. I would listen carefully for a sign of life. At that age, I aware that sleep resembled death so closely, that I would embark on a search for that seemingly lost consciousness of those asleep. This became a deadly habit.

As the dark spaces of night unfold, my mind’s eye flickers with images. My hands clasp the end of my memory, the end of my pillow.

those eyes

among the hysterically bland crowd, there are those eyes
armed with quick, broken – violin strings unstrung — glances
they glisten with phantoms of a distant emotion — mysterious, melancholic, metaphysical—
things are left unsaid, but your soul is touched with assumptions.
they dance and dance until feverish
then collapse into your memory — dead lovers, barren music, twisted plots-
and you cling to those eyes.

dream

it was right in front of me--loud, captivating and irreducibly mine.
it crept out of the broken mirror
i tried to touch it, but it became a cloud between my bleeding palms
i know the rules, inside out--they go in circles in my mind
viciously intact, instransigently real.
now the dream's behind me,
blanketed by fog