notes

While Minding My Business

A fortnight later

And he’s gifted me

A glimmer of hope

This, while simply minding my business

He could be the one

But he often disappears

Then I’m left to ponder

My only warning, being a moment’s notice

Then he reappears

As if to make amends

My heart jumping with joy

As if to tell me, “Didn’t I say so?”

Who does he think he is?

Leaving me in disarray

Telling me about his day

Then gone in a whiff

I better stay calm

Guard this heart of mine

Lest she warms up to him

For the grandest of falls

A fortnight to come

I may be left morose

And so maybe it’s time

To dish out my trusty detachment

The Best

The best is yet to come

It wasn’t today

Nor was it yesterday

Perhaps, a morrow sooner

The best is yet to come

I tell myself every day

Someday, one day

The waiting time, shortening

The best is yet to come

Said gleefully, because…

Who knows, it may very well be

Right after this utterance

ANEW

From what was a hushed night

We have now, morning

The silence remnants,

Still enveloping creek and corner

Soon it will have competition

When with sunrise, comes the bustle

And with the bustle, comes the hustle

The hustle, bringing forth a new chapter

The living are readying

To attack the day

Such zeal, such motivation

Pot scoops of such, invaluable

A brand new day

For the lonesome, the nurturers

For the caretakers, the peacemakers

Even more brilliant of a day, for a dreamer

Calm

It’s as hard to explain

As it is to watch

Because today, Calm won’t even as much

Meet my eyes, or break into embrace

Two or three gather

There’s a crowd

Involuntarily losing control

I must prepare myself

A breath in, a breath out

What am I inviting in?

What am I letting out?

I’m held back suddenly

Silence, as I try to articulate

It’s like I have no voice

And something keeps pulling at my nape

Ten fingers, seemingly turned dozen

I tell you, Calm is out for me

She steals my voice

Latches onto my neck

And casts me into the springs of anxiety

Attic of hopes

Fears, aspirations, desires 
Hang in the attic, as shelled hope
Not to be seen
But now it’s hard to breathe
As the aura is strewn 
With hanging hope
Hitting against one another 

A walk in the attic
Is deemed to be bittersweet 
For broken pieces of hope 
Pierce the feet
Taut muscles constrict that visitor 
With a hazy view of what could be
Of what is left, of hanging hope.