A tribute
to how I feel as of late
what I say – mostly mute
with quiet traces of hate –
apart from excerpts minute
which arise in a mostly ephemeral state.

a robotic brute
in so passive a state?
how acute our dispute
and it is no debate.
if things absolute
have transient weight
all is moot.
all is moot.

 

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End our bias

When the lagoon gets frozen over
The ducks are on their own
Can the truth still set you free
If it means feeling all alone?
Will the sober heart find peace
After being intoxicated for so long?
Perhaps one day I will stop waiting
For things I do not deserve

Mine,
R

elbaz

Where are you and what am I
to bear repulsion from your eye?
Is it, as mine are, set ablaze?
To me, your anger is a haze.
Feelings are profoundly changed?
Where is the softness of your gaze?
Perhaps in hours’ time I’ll know.
I’m scared.
I hope it is a phase.

Gate

Gate is a strange name for a boy, and perhaps even stranger for a man of modest proportions and a misty gaze. But that is the name nonetheless. It goes without saying that Gate goes without saying, and his name accompanies him without ever being said. Sunlight keeps constant and sole company in wanderings about the island of a dwelling, with Sand and Stone who never leave the inaccessible sea-shore blanketing them with unloving waves of turquoise and hissing foam.

It so happens that Gate has come to question both the name and the existence thereof, and will soon ask about the purpose of a name which is never spoken.

“It is useful”, says, “to have an address to one’s self.”

But you see, Gate’s not a man.
It is just a metaphor.
Though it’s surely not of haste,
I’m not too sure what it is for.
Here’s something that say I can
here’s my heart, you’re at its fore
There’s no treasure worth more than,
being with you on our shore.