Kitchen

Of this universe is but a tiled room for somebody's vicious culinary pleasures,

Man is at awe,
So is his stomach a prisoner of hunger,
Silverwares glimmering for sight's delight,
Taste buds marveling,
Spoons to bend,
Forks to twist.

But to some who thinks appetite is but a carnal err,
Exhaustive atmosphere of hell it seems,
Exotic spices for tongue's vices,
Roasted pig for oily malevolence,
Glasswares a tricky object of temptation,
Carnage at laud,
Knife to cut the flesh.
A craving so ill.

For all the senses and human nature,
All overwhelming circumstances to pardon,
Desires fashioned in diversity,
Every meal.
Everyday.

A master of himself,
Man will overcome this colossal whole,
If not,
Burn.

hiatus

http://www.stopwatchfreedom.blogspot.com

not even the faintest whisper

Death is bliss for someone who has grave consequences in living. The hospital beds, in the years they managed to stand with their four legs, could entail shuddering secrets of the sufferings of each soul that dwelled upon their sheets, pre-mortem. To and fro they roll in every other white-coated room with steel so cold I could think not of comfort. The sight of morbidity is sickening but luckily death is but an option and a gift. Carefully wrapped with a nametag around the ankle, bodies are identified now no different than the others, a fallen leaf in autumn. In death do we find the end to a caste system (not taking into account the lavish tomb-houses of the "were"-high class)- for your legend is the only defining factor of your life that’s immortal.
A tear or two is shed for them, or maybe none for some forgotten, but would it matter anyhow? For emptiness is felt not in the hollow cavities of the dead but by those who are living –restless and timid.
Who would have thought that in the stillness of the mortuary, the most eminent form of peace on earth is found and in the gloomy skies of the cemetery, there's serenity.

@ Mai Yuchi, Malate

Mirk prevailed, though complimenting, not defying the graceful chant embarked by hollowness. Feel thee.

the rain won't stop

Three days and the backyard morphed into a swampy lot, only that instead of frogs, you could fish rats out of it. During this time of the year when the sun seemed to have left for her own beach vacation, I find it soothing to just stare out the window and sip a cup of coffee- such moments when you find it difficult even to pretend that you're a stoic.
I remember how I used to puddle and sail paperboats in that disgusting miniature swamp (my make-over to mess & paperboats that turn into perfect biodegradable trash afterwards). When you were young, you were given all the time in the world to be ingenious that you hated the person who invented afternoon naps and vegetables. Oh how you wanted to be 18! The thought of lipsticks, perfumes, curling eyelashes and sexy jeans. Now, that you've been there, you just can't get a grip of time.
(From drizzle, now it pours. The rain won't stop.)