Home in a distance.
Flee in a moment.
Set sail into the endless ocean,
As the engulfed cities perish in blaze.
What sets us ablaze?
What divides us afar?
A drip of ink?
Or a smear of white paint?
Perhaps it is the same waned cinder of ashes,
Whom we shackle at the bottom of the ships.
And so all the lives dissolved,
Into the image of a distant past,
Through the inheritance of generations.
©Paulus of Sinae July 2016
Colours in disarray.
And I see the city bleeding black.
This false sight of colourful life
Within the mask of fog sagging down in the city hive.
Gold and neon lights,
Just a hollow maze of night.
We end our past dreams.
We fool our minds.
The trick to us into believing,
Unto a life we trust to be the ideal yet deceiving.
And we toil and forget.
Dissolved us on to the grand canvas with our own sweat.
No longer we own our discrete spectrum.
All spectra of colours bleed into the corrupted red;
Unto the smear of blood on those pair of lost lips.
©Paulus of Sinae April 2016
A whisper of green,
A whisper of blue.
They fill my vision.
And I scratch them off my mind.
But the hue lingers,
And the residue sinks,
Into a mess of colours,
That haunts my waking dreams.
They cling to my inner skull.
They spoil my dreaming neurons.
My palette knife keeps scratching,
And bruises my inner brain.
I can hear the knife scratching.
My skull is the prison
And out drill the splash of paint!
Dear Lord, my torment…
When shall the hue of lust faint?
The trembling rings of despair.
Where colours fade into red,
The water turns corroding sour.
The decadence rots in civilisations.
Where joints of decays flipped
Into swamps of maggots.
Why the chase,
When helplessness is the chasers?
What to sustain,
When it’s only husks the soulless live?
The one who claimed to be humanity,
But mechanical clogs in the grand society,
The fairest Babylon.
Toiling in the grand scheme.
Submitting to the grand princes,
With a contemporary ingenious yet distasteful name.
And the cities ring again,
In the glasses of blood and oppression,
Where no one cares
Of the struggling little ones.
Blood are sucked to feed
Ourselves from ourselves,
Until no little ones can be exploited anymore.
Oh do you identity yourselves as human?
Then why do you kill your own kind
For the lust of power and overpowering.
‘Tis no difference than cannibalism.
The grand harvest of soul shall begin soon.
When the earth sinks,
Boils and simmers,
And shatters
By the hammer of the creator,
Which is the fool bearing the name humanity.
Oh the world stinks
Of the blood we have shed from ourselves.
A blessed gold reached out to my gaze.
A dreamt paradise settled in my heart.
Hark! The silvery wooing waves!
And may we all drown in this poisonous mercury.
He: Because we suffer, we need blessings.
Yet will there be an end?
When the cycle twines, the blessing infuses into the fabrics of disappointments.
And all is unraveled…
Him: Blood draining blight of spirit
Hyper vigilance not required.
Just be numb
Drugs work
Or TV
Or chocolate
Anything to pass the hours
Without feeling the total endless agony of living for some.
I am one of those
Nothing came easy
He: Everything was a struggle and continues to be a struggle.
Yet through the struggle you consolidate you. The wool of your “self” is woven, within the hands of destiny.
And the quest of your subjectivity continues.
Why not let the flow carries you? To dusty the realm of wandering, to the snowy region of the deep darkness. Finally you may realize the quest itself is a void, and so is you too.
Yet the seeking demands to be sought, the suffering yearns to suffer and the blessed will realize his own final home, where he truly belongs.
Him: God and Goddess willing, we arrive home.
He: We are the firebirds. our home is so distant, so vague, and till the world scorches anew, can the smoke be lifted;
Can our sights be restored.
Hopefully the day will come.
Sincerely hopefully, it sneaks by fast.
Hues stretch under the brush.
I stand as the unfinished moment
That scraps away my own paint.
They say in ancient China
Poets needed to paint.
But now poets just need sex.
I see nothing in a poem about penis.
The inner shrine to human soul is lost,
As the world stands broken.
Just like the painting.
A step through the clouds.
The leafy branches glance at the sun.
Where is the solar boy that once was?
A splash of gold shines in his hair.
An innocent gaze through the garden.
Wait! A blooming rose catches his attention.
And the aura seeps through the paint.
Life finds us broken.
And in times us drilled open.
That little lark on the branch hummed.
In the toil and dreams it drunk.
Yet the melody lingers,
Even after death finds it swiftly.
Oh immortals who wraps themselves
In the mellow clouds,
Harken to our petty plight.
We see our times in the hands of a clock.
They swirl and twine,
Weaving our ages away like old granny.
Soon our sights fail to recognize.
Our teeth falls as the arms strike twelve.
Nothing left but a clock face
That covered in ashes of our bones.
Yet the little gears still spin.
And the movement still flourishes.
How I envy you peevish clock!
Waving your arms,
While we suffer in the face of our boss.
How I love to smash your bells,
When we still indulge in our wet morning dreams.
Oh deity from the fluffy mellows,
Rid us of this terrible fellow.
Where is the difference in time,
When we came in naked,
While leave and rot naked too?
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