The Hiatus

There’s nothing for me but broken glass;
That spreads on this floor like a carpet;
Welcoming visitors with red grandeur,
Only to bring them pain later.

And rightly, they complain.
Usually with hurting gazes or killing apathy.
Not often do they shout.
But when they do,
’tis with voices of such disdain and scorn;
That I sulk to myself and curse my blood.
For it is this blood that made the carpet red.

So, I walk everyday with floor like this.
Sleeping and waking with nothing but this.
Trudging, even crawling through pieces of glass,
I increase the amount of blood on the floor.
Like petals of red roses, they shine with the moon.

Until once upon a time,
You came floating, an empty soul.
Never seeing the floor down below.
Never hurting with pain of glass cuts.
You came to refill your soul.
Only that I need most of them for myself.

Tell me, how do I enjoy my eyes,
More than when I look at you?
Weeping with your thin lips.
Pleasing the perverted air around,
With your gentle breath of numbing smell.
With your skin of candied sweat.

I hide within myself.
And kneel against my wish.
To pray to whoever there is;
That you be the one to clean this mess.
And turn my world around,
Then turn it off.
And wait till it dies,
Sans this red carpet of broken glass.

There is no end for my hate.
For it started even before I was born.
And there is no other reason for this hate,
Other than hate itself.

So, now that you know that I hate you.
And all the drops of blood in your vast ocean.
Even that which is my own.
Leave me be.
For, even before I have known this hate.
I know that I have no escape:
This hate also hates the hater.

What is painful is the revelation
That even those who have not caused this hate;
Those who merely shared the same blood,
Are scorn by this hate.
So that I may as well deny my face.

"It’s sad
That your hate,
I could only reciprocate
With hate."

But I worry not.
For sooner or later.
Both you and I
And this hate will rot!

I is a remark.
An exclamation of delight.
A word of the proud;
The hollow of the weak.
It usually appears
When the self elevates
From the recesses of a crowd
To sometimes,
The domain of the gods.

I is a pronoun.
A substitute of the self.
A mask, some may say.
That hides the wrinkles
Of age and suffering.
For it is young.
As young as they
Who dare speak it.
Few are those
Who realize
That when they speak I
They become immortals.
Ageless with overflowing youth.

Yes, I is infinite.
For humans die and perish.
But I does not.
And I is the one.
The only one.
Even that which
Suffers the peril
Of hate and love,
Without end.

Don’t you see?
I is the one.
For I is alone…

Hence, I is nothing.
If it isn’t a mark—
A separation,
Where the self ends
And You begins.

And You,
You, my dear,
Is everything!

When you’re falling
Into her being,
Ever accelerating.
With every smile,
And look and touch.

Even how subtle.
Even how small.

You see yourself
Frowning upon the sun.
— Hurrying to hide
Under the shade
Of the evening moon.
For you see yourself
Falling with frail bones.
With frail bones
Of vanity and lies.
Of worthless weight.
And heavy souls.
And you try to shun
Images of her from your mind.
And you somehow succeed.
Only to see yourself;
Falling not for her images.
But simply for her.
Falling.
Without drag.
Into the infinity of her soul.
Into the pain of her memories.

Even how subtle.
Even how small.

And so, you realize.
The inevitability of gravity.
Once you’ve started to fall.
Into subdued semblances of her.
In everything that you see.
In everywhere.
For everytime.

But then, this is your fault.
You are the hand that pushed
Yourself to the edge of reason;
Into her sweet intoxications.
Of sweet smiles and gentle breaths.
Of comforting bosoms and lovely lips.

Perhaps you could’ve been better?
Rescued by her.
But she doesn’t care.
So now, you could’ve been better
Either way.

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to Fate.
They have known shame, who love unloved.  Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony’s forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven — such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night.  But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.

- Rupert Brooke

Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest:
  Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers:
Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest,
  And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!

- William S. Gilbert

A mighty pain to love it is,
And ’tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.

- Abraham Cowley

You are a drop of rain in this endless desert.
Why should you bring me pain?
Should you not quench my thirst for cold while it is day?
Giving me life while I’m awake.

Fighting this sun for a thousand years is lonely.
But then you came, then you came.
And so, fighting this sun is now lonelier.
Now that I know that you are here, but forever away.

Why can’t you see, cold were the nights this past few years?
Always were bearable, but I had to fight.
So, I saw you, like fading mirage.
From then on, colder were the nights.

Then thinking of you, a secret I share only with my creator
All my past play like a child in the great sky dome.
With the stars all falling and piercing my arid lands.
Giving me sorrow, taking away all I have had.

Looking back all the days of this past year.
Shorter were these than my thousand years.
Yet, how could I’ve been without you all along?
To think of you, how long will I suffer, how long?

Perhaps I am just one of a thousand deserts.
Thirsting for the beauty of a fresh drop of rain.
Surely, in time, you’ll leave even before you’ve come
Never looking back, never looking back.

And so, before I think of myself as a forest.
Like him gluttoning over, but never hearing you.
I shall sever the bonds that in this heart rest.
For deserts are meant to be without you.