The Song of Reclusion
Let me punch a hole
Through this rigid wall
Let me widen the crevices
For the light to pour out
A crack can bridge a gap,
Just let the water seep in.
Let me punch a hole
Through this rigid wall
I want the outside to radiate.
My light isn’t yellow
It’s a pigment of the night sky —
Purple-blue-black it glows.
It won’t illuminate the space
But if you let it
It’ll induce the calm of waves
That the moon longs for.
See it glitter and dim,
It is not a tinsel
But the throbbing of my pulse.
It is not the light you look for
At the end of the tunnel.
It is the one inside it
That makes your eyes gape.
You see no more or less,
Just what is. Just enough, I’d say.
Enough, until you seek for more.
Let me punch a hole
Through this rigid wall
I’m a recluse, I like walls
And doors and windows,
And cracks and holes.
Do you not see the punctures?
The crumbling bricks I’ve left loose?
They’re for you, your portal,
In case you miss the hatch,
Left ajar.
Let me punch a hole
Through this rigid wall
Don’t tear it down
I’m not boxed in.
Wait! Don’t break in,
Put the shovels to rest,
They won’t span the depth
At which I lay.
Don’t hunt me down,
Put that fire out,
And maybe, just ask?
Ask to be let in, and
I will punch a hole
Through this rigid wall
Right through the vacuum
Of my soul.
Other Worlds
When the stars dim down
And the moon’s shine wavers
Do you look up at the blue darkness
Wide-eyed, hoping to light the world
With only your eyes?
When the music stops jerkily
Amidst intense talks
Do you begin to hum calmly
To fill the gaps
Between silences?
When the bright flower
That gave you joy
Withers by sundown
Do you sprinkle water
On its supple petals
Trying to revive it?
When the raindrops hurt
Your skin, do you look up
And talk to the clouds
That bear down on you
Wordlessly, yet powerfully?
Do you shield your eyes
From the blazing sun
But glare back at it
From between the narrow spaces
Of parted fingers?
Do you switch between worlds
Others’ and your own,
Attempting to bridge two
Poles, distant and disparate?
Do you leave pieces of your self
Behind, to make space
For those of others to fit in?
Do the other worlds
Have a place for yours?
The Relics of Silence
shh! listen —
feel the heaviness in the large,
empty room.
taste the intensity
at the back of your mouth,
rough, dry, sour.
let it travel down your throat,
stay there a while,
and plop down onto your gut.
silence is a never-ending echo,
reverberating, loud, deafening,
hollow.
it slips through your fingers,
like granules of sand,
it hangs down the wall,
a little slant and on the edge,
it runs between your feet,
like squirmy little mice,
and then it stops.
it looks you in the eye,
cold and sharp,
and makes you break its flow —
a cough here,
a mumble there.
Writing
she wrote of war
boxed in
within the four walls
of her book-filled room.
she spoke of death
like she knew
something about it
that others were blind to.
her frail body supported
her eyes, bold and fierce
as she embraced the grey
in a world of black and white.
with her words alone
drop by drop
she inked
a life out for herself.
set out to live with
only a pen in the pocket
a diary in the hand
and a simper on the face.
the pen
became an extended limb
an equipment
a weapon
and each drop of blue and black
fused with the yellow-white
of paper,
in a symbiotic union
too dependent for
separate existence.
she wrote of life
beyond her four walls
beyond time
beyond chains
it was how she placed
the world
into sight
and how the world placed
her
into vision.
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