tsiken3

In the span of a lifetime, or at least so far. Every so oft, a few verses come writing. Across pages and pages and pages of ink, and dustbins and reasons and seasons and sin. Dustbins of pages of writings in vain, and wastebaskets of words and letters unsent. Reasons for verses and seasons they stayed for world, for self, or for some other inspiration. Seasons and sin and seasons of sin. Fleeting lapses of judgement, or lingering choices to wrong. On to inspiration. Aside from world and self, I admit there's almost always the other. For acquaintance or affection, for like or love. Some inspirations live short          some liv

That's how I see them now,          the dusty chest of mementos I placed us into. The letters speak like a storyteller          weaving tales, it sounds almost like fiction. The songs play like the artists of yesteryear          still singing, albeit faraway and jaded. The memories, I can't quite place          still familiar, but simultaneously alien. There was a time          there was a time I could write          Splendid ballads so sickeningly sappy          Magnificent poems so hideously honest          and now I can't imagine how          I was capable of that much emotion. There was a time I could write about yo

You were purple, with all its facets and hues; And in all your bareness and mystery, purple was every shade of you. Purple. Not enough blue to be gloomy, not enough red to be feisty. Purple, like orchids. Orchids like those in background          when I first laid eyes on you. (Although I doubt you recall.) Purple, like your favorite sweater. The one I slept in after we ran into the sea          and I had no other clothes. (I agreed so easily.) Purple, like our lips. After the initial touch, bruised          from their exploits with one another. (Bruised but stubborn, refusing to stop.) Purple, like your sheets. Tangled