Every Sunday, on the wooden bridge

 We met. Gleeful, scurrying towards that terrain free of
 Hindrances, we ogled each other from our opposite origins.

 Then no uncharitable objective ejected from our inner bubbler,
 And no rodomontade encroached on our quixotic complicity.

 We were as crystalline as the river beneath in which we dabbled our bare
 Feet, as manifest as the old purveyor who rode his green rusty bicycle

 On all weathers to the city’s market.

 Each time a new fragrance eluded his basket filled with flowers and spices,
 And among rose, myrrh and anise we galvanized our flickers with guesses.

 The bedtime stories with monsters who sometimes ~we knew it too well~
 Cohabit with our reclusive reality, abated to flea size, when together.

 In turns, one leaned over the rope railing screaming “I trust you
 Completely”, while the other’s hands yielded the sole point of support

 Until both on edge of syncope.

 There was never a farewell waving, nor any promise of forever as we
 Could only envisage our souls cupped as petals in sepals in each other.

 Now? Now each Sunday I parse the gems of that timeless world
 And burnish, as august warriors the scabbard of their life-saving swords,

 Our non-floodable quay.

 

The photo’s source

I can’t stand, nor understand…

People without moral integrity. I have seen so many times so many of them reiterating same irretrievable desecration…doing the wrong thing for the right person and the right thing for the wrong person.

The indolent beings that request lenity for their spineless acts of treachery and afterwards take offence when not granted or, captives of their self-delusion, distort the other’s immaculate real self with their own guilt as to absolve themselves. Those that can’t comprehend that, as a writer that I appreciate on this platform, Cristian Lisandru put it, there are only two options: being betrayed or not being betrayed; there is no such thing as betrayal no.1, no.2 and so on. Betrayal germinates at its inception, indelible as time’s flow through our transfiguring embodiment.

Those self-indulgent humans whose utter silence, in their vision, spares you suffering, when in fact it smothers you with inhuman hurt and reflects only the fact they don’t have even a speckle of respect for you…especially when you implore their brutal honesty, a limpid rejection or a monosyllabic explanation as elucidating closure

Why there are beings whose touching yet unrequired and unrequited love faithfully follows you year after year, seemingly undiminished by your own bitter refusal. The regret of not being able to reduce their affection to sheer friendship, the only relationship you could ever envisage with them…of being incapable to accept the secure destiny of caring endearment they offer you as you don’t sense an inexplicable chemistry that makes you gravitate towards them.

Why the bridges we laboriously construct between each other can’t be pure, genuine and straightforward, but collapse-forecasting threads of vanity and neurotic fears perennially creep upon their steely scaffold.

…mea culpa, I don’t indwell their thorny land

 

The photo’s source

Sotto voce

It was alveolate, the exquisite haven of tide and fire
Where they vibrated, sotto voce, their day.
He studying the phenology of love, she fixing a lyre
Of trust. In that era, no canopy of dire
Treason flagged the joy from the intimacy of their lay.

Oh, but divagation is what leads ahead!
*Even when it unreels most splendid thread?*
Pause for harrumph. Alright, I will instantiate:
An ophidian squirmed its cunning in their fate,
Gifted them cannikin of lust on a lucre-made plate.

Sui generis, their polarizing walnut-shaped bits
Tossed apart the bliss of intertwined pits.
Now, in a smorgasbord of temptations each
Seeks to confusticate the longing meats,
While minstrels dissect their waltz of perpetual glitch.

The photo’s source

Thesis & antithesis

Wickedness? Oh, poor dear!
 Synonym of trite and pesky whim
 Kindliness? Oh, lush brim!
 Of elevated ones' vessel of tear

But fun blossoms thoroughly in profane
 The throbbing urge must not, in vain,
 Be smothered just for the hemisphere
 Of moral, cerebrally embedded on right, its fear
 Dulls the exaltation of primeval leer

Yet the feast which spoils ever forecasts
A gloomy finale, everything that lasts
Is moulded and chiseled with integrity.
Choosing the all too accessible bubble
Of destruction, perfidy and temerity
Over the ceaseless, ennobling struggle
Of limpid creation, is choosing to sink
In an overly populated ocean of filth
Over living exiled on an isle sans guilt

 

The photo’s source   

We should apologise for our deliberate mirages

 

We should apologise…we, for whom the urgent subjects of our all sorts of infatuation are factually mere objects of our distorting imagination

We should recognise….that the reverse of nothing which becomes something and ultimately everything is our most dreaded yet habitual flaw

We should realise…sooner than later that we ought to proffer chances where unfailingly met with caring attitude and let go where shadows of intentional self-indulgence and sabotaging neglect struggle for supremacy

…but, oh, how seducing the grip of scented with happiness delusion is, for the mind incited with the ample beauty of amplifying and beautifying!

 

The photo’s source

Deplorable venture

She cast the dice
Of deluded hope.
Conjured king? Nope.
Wily joker. The vice,
By virtue scared,
Derided. Un-dared,
The act haunts
With guilt. Flaunts,
The fool, his defeat
Flaunts and it blames.
You zany, to outwit
Probity, flames
Of sheer truth, a must!
Uncapable of trust,
In sabotage, the jester
Mauled his luck. Fester
And qualms below
His insolence, claw
With dreary insight,
His soul: you lost light.

The photo’s source