luigi ng 3lm~ eto na o!
distance makes the heart grow fonder
as like absence would be an efficient word
as to every poem that makes no sense
when it bleeds with the absence of a character
distance stabs the thought of reality
of thoughts fulfilled by slight chance
>>> there is a space between our fingers,
a space way too much
~
eventually time will pass and you will forget,
as others have forgotten.
change is the disciple of time
as fire of an elapsed furnace
but somehow, at this very moment,
i take you in my arms longingly
selfishly eating every part of you
finishing your life with one resonating thought
an idea of ones phantasm
so delicate like alabaster
of this thought, perfection
so enticingly sweet
like honey and tears combined
so sweet like the thought of you
in awkward hours i cannot mouth
all intelligence is lost of one thing i cannot prove
this virginal barbaric feeling
this tetragrammaton
this notion that pleads:
take me in, fold me up, remember
~
The sun bore no contact to the city’s edifice as this temporal muck subdues the entirety of this country. A typhoon is slowly creeping itself in the city and here you are discussing who scored highest in this week’s game; disillusioned that you lost a weeks allowance on betting to that. Veering away to another thought, you question existence by mere chance due to depression, applied.
“What is our purpose?”
Appalled I cognitively answer, “To feed and breathe life into indifference.”
“But if our purpose does not meet this hunger?”
“Then we are food for such calamities like this typhoon.”
Slowly, reassuringly you stand up, out of your seat to grab a bucket and a mop. There’s a long night ahead… a very long night ahead.
as like absence would be an efficient word
as to every poem that makes no sense
when it bleeds with the absence of a character
distance stabs the thought of reality
of thoughts fulfilled by slight chance
>>> there is a space between our fingers,
a space way too much
~
eventually time will pass and you will forget,
as others have forgotten.
change is the disciple of time
as fire of an elapsed furnace
but somehow, at this very moment,
i take you in my arms longingly
selfishly eating every part of you
finishing your life with one resonating thought
an idea of ones phantasm
so delicate like alabaster
of this thought, perfection
so enticingly sweet
like honey and tears combined
so sweet like the thought of you
in awkward hours i cannot mouth
all intelligence is lost of one thing i cannot prove
this virginal barbaric feeling
this tetragrammaton
this notion that pleads:
take me in, fold me up, remember
~
The sun bore no contact to the city’s edifice as this temporal muck subdues the entirety of this country. A typhoon is slowly creeping itself in the city and here you are discussing who scored highest in this week’s game; disillusioned that you lost a weeks allowance on betting to that. Veering away to another thought, you question existence by mere chance due to depression, applied.
“What is our purpose?”
Appalled I cognitively answer, “To feed and breathe life into indifference.”
“But if our purpose does not meet this hunger?”
“Then we are food for such calamities like this typhoon.”
Slowly, reassuringly you stand up, out of your seat to grab a bucket and a mop. There’s a long night ahead… a very long night ahead.