dedicated to the dregs in a tea cup

I scraped the container
tasting honey with my finger
sweetness ruled over the sour taste
that sour taste left from the remnants of past
sweet and sour make strange bedfellows
and I almost perished 
I was in love with life, 
mind you, not with you
the road may seem long and winding
but I like to watch the dregs in my tea cup
those cannot tell me my future
but make a nice pattern
someday I will knit a sweater
which will go with my golden heels

"I love my red sunglasses and green shoes
you can have my golden heels in your chest"

discontent

House At Dusk, 1935, Edward Hopper

it is all a blur
the words, 
did you scrape with a flinty tool
I wrote on the walls with a chalk
somewhat rough
in the burnished interior
austere measures do nothing
my discontent is drenched with your brittle talk
I will hide in the barnacles
it will nicely cocoon me
shadows will hover in the periphery
I will pick some
take those to the forest
I will merge into the trees

in that house, without shadows
you will live alone
"didn't you choose that for yourself,
why are you discontent now? like me."

writing on a blank wall

stillness chills the grief
but cannot bend the marrow
flowers will still bloom
when you stare out of your window
the massive crocusses sway
akin to the hips of a buxom dancer in a bar
a flower child of bygone era 
now rotting in secret of her mind clatter
when did the colors fade
when did you invade
perhaps, I made a mistake,
perhaps I have forgotten
another day, another place
might set an even pace

I will find my empty hand,
 filled with jagged time, 
(an impossibility you say;
no, not for me, not for me) 

cloud reader

I fall to save my soul

from the burning coals

when cinders touch me

ice reaches me

I merge into the clouds

escaping from a vast wasteland

angels of sorrow surround me

as always I shed dry tears

"when tears fall, fear rushes out

I float so light in that dim light,
where everything looks black and white"

conversing with the fire

when I heard
time to say goodbye
crimson tears flowed freely
no, you cannot see those
they are flowing in the inside
that crunch in my heart
you cannot hear
I don't expect you too
I am compelled to forget
but I know I cannot
when the crimson tears turn clear
I will know I am cleansed

I will burn with the cinders
while you watch from afar
that kindling in your hand
will remind you of your doing
"time to say goodbye"
I whisper to the fire

strings

The Meal, 1891, by Paul Gauguin 

I offer that sacred bowl
to the goddess
I let the rituals take over my senses
I might not understand its significance
yet I cut fruits into strings
I do not wish demons to visit
to taste the elaborated food
I never did comprehend their intentions
or the way they followed the flags of peace
only to cause devastation

demons are indigenous, 
goddess is usurper;
reaching the summit, only to fall
let us drink from that bowl
before we sell our very soul

winter has only just begun

you float in and out
more out than in
I try to hold the wild images
chasing images merge into the walls
that sense of lost intangibles
submerges into depression
shadows of your translucent skin
is imprinted everywhere
I want to walk away
from the interloper
(which is nothing but conjured images)
mortality of my feelings is at its tether
destiny brought us together
destiny will part us
I can still hear you saying,
"it is our pleasure"
but I cannot hold it any longer
I will let it slip through my fingers

"if you so desire, it is your turn to thaw me"