The Seasonal Greeting

In afternoons to evenings my grandmother, Laling, seats at the balcony of our abode with her fan swaying hither and thither, issuing a throb of wind towards the bunch of flies, dodging every saber-like approach of her lame foot; leaning with her back crunching as the very weaker parts touched the fiery wall of her ancestral mono-block. The sides of her face were dappled with curves and veins like of a web; her cheeks moved on a circular motion as if chewing meat of an elder venison. Smoke soon float on her face as she open her mouth with a cigarette clinging at the side of her lips as if an elephant nostril was mounted on it. One thing amazed me that time, when I perceived that the smoke secretion was slowly diminished from her mouth as if quickly extinguished, and soon the trick was revealed: I noticed the butt of the cigar lay outward, and the remnants from the kindled part was actually in her mouth. That gave me the will of concern to ask:

“Tiyang, aren’t you hurt with the burning in your mouth?”

“Not at all, child,” she said.

With that inquiry, thoughts of her past I mused, labored every piece of recount from our relatives of her life as a youngster, and pursue the questionings one from the other.

“Since when the Japanese occupied your place?” I asked.

“Why you ask?”

“Many fails to touch this concern on your life; I still wonder what’s life back there through your goings.”

“Never in this sweet cigar I taste with thoughts of the past in me; I only recall the time when me and Conching constrained to taste our own dung out of curiosity.”

As she blurted the last few words, I had seen a drop of smile occupied her parting lips, made an essence like of a dean to her novice. She slid her arm on her winter gown, furred with hair-like blemishes as though bleached superfluously; her arms were clinging with excessive skin a person gets from aging. The fan on her arm continued to sway in irregularity while her eyes were fixed on above sky. She lit the cigar with competence, and swiftly turned it backwards toward her mouth; smoke soon came out from her mouth like of a dancing viper.

The air of the afternoon came as a breeze blended with the smoke, creating aspirations of knowing what is beneath the disadvantage of making smoking a habit; of what the lungs endure on every sip of caffeine and nicotine that sooth the unknown feeling of the chest, while trembling during the act of inhaling the spontaneous provocation of illness. Her earnest voice broke my reverie:

“Rice was always a big deal in our times,” she said, “especially when our mother waits every night to check our earnings from selling lotto tickets; I remember a time when me and Conching decided to check out the theatre house to see a play of our pondered actor, disregarding the anger our mother might assert - and we went on without thinking, handed our whole-day earnings on the theater attendant, and enjoyed the rest of the show,” Tiyang paused for a second, smiling on her details, then went on, “when a hand from the dark took a grasp upon my hair while Conching on her bicep, and in one moment, mother took shape, dragging us out of the theater house, marveling foul words, but to both of us, still muttering words of escape.”

The clock struck with a resonant tone, proclaiming the hour of three, pushing our conversation to its anticipated end; but to Tiyang, the hours were like a mere sand of life, slowly pulling her soul out of her, towards the abyss of her losing senses. Her mere countenance seemed inordinate on the way she looks at life, not concerning the danger of the continuance on the usage of the thwarted habit. Her form of quaint acceptance towards the approaching dawn on her life conceived the frightened being that hid itself beyond Tiyang’s sanity. Moments of her leaving every quarter of the month made me eliminate every possible future of her not going back at us, until an unexpected day of her arrival with a handful of hardened bread hid inside her bag of insurance, remained as the seasonal greeting every month.

“What happened next?” I asked, “I suppose your mother really had a hard time on both you.”

“Hard time indeed, son” she paused for a cough, then said, “we received a well-measured hit of mother’s stick: from head to foot we’ve had had our sweet hit; the ironic thing was the smile on Conching’s face and a muttering laugh coming from my bleeding lips, as if inviting more of the stick, regardless on how it can be fatal as it break our mild, young skin into blisters and scars at the last assault of it - that made a cleft on my lip’s upper part”:

Tiyang had shown the crevice that now recede at the back butt of the cigar conceiving the thoughts of the past grieving, and then marveled an impetuous account of the next scene from the latter:

“Mother took us the next day at the fort of the narrow-eyed soldiers, urging Conching to do the household chores while I get rid of the wasps with the torch. Sipping cups of coffee, bearded men were leaning at their own tables as if revitalized and became crude on the situation they had incited. I was sweeping the smote flies towards the door, when one of the bearded men approached me: ‘Are these all dead, servant?’ I did not answer; the question seemed prolonged in my head. ‘Deafening question, huh?’ One of the wasps started to quiver; the throbbing of my heart became a fiery around my temple; my nerves began to palpitate; my eyes were dreary. An approaching boot was seen at the side of my left eye, as though addressed for a servant; blinking was a form of escape, as I mind of my job in the room as an imbecile doings.”

“…and, the wasp?” I asked.

“Let me tell you this, son: life, in many ways, is a journey either on hell or Eden; it’s just a matter of optimism that we consider the path we’re heading to. At that time when one of the wasps moved, I assumed already the end of me in that room; but my first concern was Conching, feeling safe at the hearth, loading the piles of wood in the fireplace as though the light intricate the wasps to appear.”

“But wasps are intuitive, not minding the steps they’re taking.”

“Well, that’s the point. I’m on that peril situation because the wasps invaded the room of those narrow-eyed; I’ve chosen to accept the job with a personal reason in mind: I hate wasp, they sting me for no reason, as if I’ve had left an important gratuity for them; I hate dealing business with them, they always get me into trouble.”

The cigar on Tiyang’s mouth transfigured in the form of a crumpled pipe, withered by inhalation, with the remnants still intact, promoting solidarity as a way of prolonging its stay on the body of the main constitute. Tiyang soon took the cigar out of her mouth, kindled it, and then returned it in its own place. She stood for a moment, made a stretching activity, and then sat once more at her mono-block.

The newly-born smoke flew at my face with freshness, as if crawled from the Atlantic air, accumulated the cold sting, leaving my nose on a craving duty. My view became misty through the growth of the incongruous heaviness of the secretion of the smoke, resulting to Tiyang’s feature of a woman facing the afternoon hue with dust mites scattered. Her eyes moistened with tears, with a peculiar smile appended on it.

“Wasps are really good stingers, can’t imagine them pushing they’re needles –“

“Don’t imagine, son!” she said impetuously, “the wasps I mentioned moving had its over-dues after receiving the boot from that narrow-eyed. Wasps, son, are intuitive indeed, but the move the man enacted doesn’t really had any excuses in any way to be permissible upon a living thing; wasps’ default mind have their ’sting-at-all-times-or-be-eaten’ scheme; where did they get that? I don’t know, but I assume you, our Creator really have had a purpose of mounting every moving elements their weapon of survival: us, arms, feet, and teeth; them, wings, and butt-needles. Those bites that I’ve had were the wasps’ completion of their aspired sweet treats: as a supposition, perceived as their first and probably, their last, grabbed it without minding a thing; approached their death like ephemeral creatures - and I’m quite happy as a vessel for them.”

Tiyang’s optimistic views nurtured and lofted the young mind in me, etched a gullible approached on every critical proposition of men and deference of argumentation; embrace them as form of teachings; relieve them from personal prejudices; treat as cultured-precious pearls; blackened as the acceptance was established. Every piece of her word clinging on her sentences appeared to be needles of the cerebra: every poke an idea comes out; disregard the questioned views - stapled as requisites.

“Wasps are really cultivated creatures; narrow-eyed men are such fierce creatures: participating in the war of the worlds, pushing their believes in the extended place an average man can’t possibly understand.”

“But they’re lucky people, with the strength of their country wall at their back, supporting them against the fiends of their own kind;” Tiyang, pallid and sweaty, continued, “my brothers, sons, and daughters are the ones who had the taste of the war, claimed their lives one by one by hunger and sickness, with their stomach calling for a feed.”

Tiyang slowly had her tears, moistened her dry, wrinkled facial, took out her cigar, compelled the butt into the ashtray.

Never, even once, that I have seen Tiyang cry of any reason. I grew up knowing that she is a person of stout movement; that crying is the last option she could take in times of her life at stake. In her very weakness, I had seen a normal grandparent, swaying her old-aged fan, while cherishing her cherry cigar clinging upon her mouth, while getting rid of the flies in the afternoon air of her passing time. An average life, indeed.

“I feel sorry for being insistent,” I said.

“No. It’s just me, son, who couldn’t take the pile of the past out of me. They always chase me even in my sleep. I was caught between the world of the dead and the living.”

“It’s time for you to disregard the things of the past; you don’t have any fault of whatsoever, in the conclusion of their dear lives, you've had become a great daughter, sister, mother, and grandmother with the people you love. Hence, there’s nothing to cry about. You’ve been good.”

With the words I had spoken, she never realized how eager I am to fill the void conception within her. She never had an illustrious life: from her sister, to us, an equivocal affiliation, she was proud as a part, which could never be replaced with her past lifestream. The dedication she had shown through the decades laid as a service to us, was for her could only be repaid with a good treatment, which I am certain we had given her.

The afternoon light became a steadfast revolution as the replacement of the above sky from azure-fine day, to a vesper-specked night was such a beauty in the eyes of an spectator; never deemed by any one of any mortification of the momentum mirth built from a conversation under the afternoon sun. The smoke from a lighted cigar would not be visible against this rare beauty of nature; but the permeability of the latter was not the gravity feature, the taste and appeal on the nostril of the fine mist were the paid attributes of the forbaded stick: the pod that carried the mood at its exploration.

At the last moment on the remains of the daylight, a figure was formed seating with its back stretched against the bamboo chair at the balcony of our renovated home, waving its hand good-bye, while slowly prevailing towards the northern light.

Mama soon came out of the front door.

“Place this candle on the grotto; it’s your Tiyang’s third-death anniversary.”

The Death of Mr. Townsend

Charley felt uneasy when he woke up two-forty-six in the morning in vain condition, “What happened to me last night? My head hurts.” He slightly bent his robust shoulders to have a good stretch when he noticed bloated patches of nerves scattered all over his arms. “Am I drunk last night?” he murmured while striving to gather himself up to prepare for work. A stench of rotting meat filled his nostrils that almost made him blow his throat out - realizing how he cleaned his fridge last Tuesday, got rid of anything that might cause an unpleasant smell for he had - usually - difficulties of eying every day his things because of his bread-and-butter needed a full-time effort to be maintained. He was a computer programmer: almost consumed everyday by stress, fatigue, and the clamor that he nightly obtain through the answering machine: “Hey Mr. Charley, just wanna remind you that Fran, you’re little girl, has a camping tomorrow; don’t fool me with your naive alibis, cut it out!” Sophia, his ex-wife, regularly called him every night to fetch the financial support of her daughter as they both decided to part ways behind the reason of immaturity.

Charley left his bed for a good sip of coffee when the pendulum of his clock abruptly stop from its usual swinging, and fell on the ground that made a resounding thump as it hit the placid floor. “That’s weird,” he said. He stepped out of his bedroom and probed his box-like apartment in search of the light switch. As soon as he reached the living room, he noticed that his eyeglasses were left beside his lampshade stand, so he ran back for them. Upon reaching the room, he had seen his glasses were deteriorated: the rim was bent in an unusual way that it was hard to be recognized as it was; the glass parts were scattered all over on the lampshade table, and some of it were missing. "Am I really drunk last night?” he muttered, “I can’t remember a thing." He reached the phone and dialed the number of his office mate, Lisa, to ask what happened to him the night he got home as it struck his mind that they were together until dawn. The moment he raised the mobile console and reached his ear, he noticed that the line was cut. The stench of rotten meat got enough of him. He threw the mobile console straight to the mirror, and the scattered pieces of the latter broke into his face that made him crumble on the floor, “What in the world is happening!”

Outside his apartment, sounds of different variety filled the entire vicinity, and lingered to his aching head that caused a poignant attack that made him thump his head on the floor a dozen times that open-up a swelling on his forehead, with blood pouring down on the floor - he stopped. He managed to stand up and continued his pursuit to the missing light switch that seemed to be allocated by such entity for he knew the exact location of its position even with the lights off, but then, looking the whereabouts of it. He continued the probing that he started to get bored of, and unlike his pursuit to the missing switch, he doesn’t have any aim in mind while he probe the place. It seemed that he was walking at the longest road of his faith; and the stench had clearly consumed his whole sanity that he started to see a kind of reverie that laid him a lot of trouble through walking. His surroundings swirled with mists all over, creating a cyclone-cone view with all the objects spinning around as if a storm rummaging the room; it made a transfiguring state with every piece, changing the atmosphere to a form of eerie schism. He stumbled several times to flower vases, and other mud pots of the room. “This looks so real,” he said. When he reached the end of the ravine, he saw a cliff with grasses spreading the platform across the other end; marching fawns filled his eyes with specks of blood from a certitude spot, moved his view to the matter where the blood spots were formed; and at the middle of it, a man wearing a specified trouser for officers; his polo-shirt was shred on the collar part as if shrewd by a clawed vermin; the man’s tie was oddly wrapped around the pulse, changing the color of the arm to a russet-clot patch, allowing the veins to be malignant, down to the nails with formed blood by the pressure of the knotted swelling - hanging to a tree-branch with a rope gripped on his neck. He seemed to be alive at that moment for he was still wiggling that made the stems to crack and the leaves to fall. As he planned to get near on the man, he was struck by an imperturbable feeling that kept him from walking. He knelt down on the dry ground and smiled on what he witnessed. He seemed to recognize who the man was and doesn’t bother to be alarmed on the man’s current state of torment.

The scenarios that he had been through drifted slowly around him; wrest everything within his eyes could reach: the dry ground shone up to its peak; the ravine was contracted as one huge rock formation and transformed into a big chest-like furniture, later recognized as a monster-like closet for its antiquity. He gathered himself up planning to probe the new place he was currently into. Upon reaching his level of stance, he noticed a bed - a master one - filled with blood down from its bed sheet up on its poles. He saw a foot swung against the beams of the bed and made a resounding noise when it dropped on the floor. The resiliency of the stench filled the room and shown its fierceness that plagued a struggle on his breathing - almost knock him down. He crawled towards the foot and saw some blood on the carpet where the foot was laid down. His breathing became more difficult while he slowly approach the foot for he found that the rotting stench was coming from it. When he had seen the rest of the body parts through the spectacle crowded with blood-feasted worms and stuffed flies circling around the corpse, a reel of flashback plagued his thoughts, continued to linger for eternity.

“Luis, you’re fired! You dumped all the resources of the company!”

“You dope, fat-ass moron! Fire me, and I’ll kill you!”

The Edifice

The day was pale, same as the darkness encompasses every inch of the remnant of a passed morning. The hue faded into spot of orbs that cradled the battalion of gnat that aggravates the placid pavement of an average one. The time of waiting amid the worldview won’t fix any trial that shook one’s faith to the pointed end of an hill edge. The waiting might be over, created a hope through an hour of waiting for the light to appear - supine bodies encircled the withered grasses to promote a solemn truth. Now that the descending hours were proclaimed and served as a primer of the mourning, let the abomination proceed.

He measured the underpass of the blue manor, trying to fit in through a beaten hole; curtailed by everything he had passed through - sharpened ends of shred planks; nail-like stones withstand everything with a pitch dark aura of the tube place.

The other end concealed by heights of the surrounding wall revealed a spectacle that pursued amazement and nausea. Poles, rolled with pointed chicken wires brightened the surroundings through the dresses hanging were of greens and oranges. The sky and wind conspired that made his breathing more profound and steady.

He made a crunching sound because of the bushes and trunks were scattered all over; yawning of a cat made him startle as he walked stealthily through a beaten path that was headed to uncertainty with scarcity of light source. The moon was at its dimness form; clouds were everywhere like ashes into solid form.

The place he was into occurred in the late era of his ancestral domain - rumored to be owned by him some time until it was taken by the English Monarchs, oppressed his race, and expatriated to some part of Asia, and the whereabouts of them was still unknown to him. Thunders came in series of cat-calls, bushes were twirling as if dancing in the air as the wind as its partner. “Storm’s comin’,” he murmured. Flashes of light filled the above sight, creating images that evoked visions to his mind.

As he advanced over a wooden fence, screeching of some parts of the house could be heard: windows banging, door’s grunting sound.

The beaten path to where he was glancing was emblazoned with bushes, dimmed by the nocturnal parades happened were of patched-plum like of a thin-haired pillars; touching of it would enact considerable forms of anxiety with great thoughts aggravated. The sand - with rubble all over - was hard to step into for he was just wearing a sandal-like footwear of strings and wood mounted. Patches of blood were dripping from his wounds, procuring mud that could wear-off tissues as healthy ones - for the irons scathed them. A piece of shroud was lying on the steps as he had seen it through keen blinking. The steps of the front door bore a carpet-like covering for its furs were considerably blemished with thorns of nylon-dried threading.

The knob, as he approached it, shone through the moonlight of the evening, aligned directly to the moon from the knob itself; the threshold made from wood carried the rigid wall that support the upper and the lower integrals of the abode; the knob, as it constitute to the structure of the door looked auspicious for the engravings of the wooden part of the latter promulgate the intrinsic property of a genuine, Asian type of home: amulets, alibata scriptures, ying-yang stamps, Chinese formulas that made it stand among the houses of pale features.

He marveled on the instincts that played his mind, suggesting a command of entering the house without proper probing around its vicinity, which was classified unethical in his principle. Starting at the rooftop, he glanced to it with grief of not witnessing its glory days, giving him affirmations in his visions of how it looks like before the intrusion of the monarchs. The alignment of the parquets as the components of the roof were characterized with horizontally placed positioning; encrypted with alpha-shaped letters written on parchments and attached in the very block of the parquet.

“I believe in the markings of great purpose," he murmured.

The adversity of climbing to it was seen as a challenge; completing it without touching the palpable exteriors of the house was a trick to be taken as regardless completion, making it a quiet clamor of aspiration. To reach the peak of the abode without rendering devastating steps of stratagem was the main category of the problem, seeing the much quivering steps to take when arms were clasped in the very weak parts of the said edifice. The night continued to showcase its peril atrocities: pitch-dark image, shivering cold dusk, stale air streaming. Moments of silence preceded the features that made his decisions more of a reverie; murmurs from all corners of his mind started to flourish, blurring the needed thought as an oasis encapsulated by a sandstorm.

“Drew back, mister.”

“Non-sense of continuing.”

“Mama wants you back.”

“Pick-prick-trick-thick. “

He followed the voices within as it controlled the buttons and levers of his frail mental state. The blood rushing through the healthy neurons were slowly hindered by the thoughts of unseen beings; the stark of breathing was established, came in consecutives for him to fall in the dry pavement, face first. Losing of conscience was at stake, endeavored to be parted by the visions of an unknown place: it was characterized with eaves of low heights; chairs were scattered with broken foot one by one; the floor was carpeted with Arabic notes and other dialects that was unknown to his knowledge. His hearing was devoured by mute thumps like a head continuously struck at the temple.

The scenery reproached his eyes with the rustic wash of the walls; the bulbs mounted near the eaves were tinted of green and blue, sparking as if the connection wires were rat-eaten; tables, along with the deteriorated chairs, were trimmed to perfect cylindrical shape showing the middle hole of it as the main attraction, as if finished with a poke of a sharpened lance. The columns that support the lower parcel of the edifice were breaking on every attempt of him to stand and establish a well-balanced stance.

“A place for praying purpose,” he thought.

As he resort for the last option, he sat on the carpeted floor while trying to decipher the signs and symbols below his eyes. He had decided to take this position to keep the columns from creaking. His eyes probed the internal quality of the room, seeing a couple of altars stood solid against the wall of rustic features, he be-lowered his eyelids to keenly observe the objects and assessed its place as a tabernacle: the mattresses piled were of brown complexion, as if kindled in the fireplace and placed again for certain purpose; a wand-like rod stood at both sides with woody features, golden strings rounded to cover it wholly; the cross on the center was crowded with withered flowers apt to be disposed.

Seeing this spectacle of solemnity, he slowly rise from seating and groped from his pocket a piece of stone he got on the road while trudging towards the place. He aimed and threw it to one of the columns at his right to check its stability. It made no sound of affirmation by its weakness, though the exterior of it was softened by termites and moisture and other kinds of wood antagonist. The column started to secrete battalions of termite through the hole he made of the throw.

“Pick, pack, pow,” he murmured.

The support of the first level started to give in for the dust above begun to fall like of a snowdrop alighting down on the grey meadows; the nails were trembling as a sign of frailty, that made him crawl in a wandering movement. The creaking sound made a resonance into his mind - a feverish piece of the soul.

The movement of crawling from every signs and symbols of the carpeted floor, corner after corner, supine like a blind - met by a bestial figure: it had eyes of grief, nose of a parson, mouth of an ogre. Behind this, a rectangular hole was seen.

“By gawd!” he exclaimed.

The loud crash soon preceded, flooded his ears and clouds of dust on his eyes that resulted his body to rummage in the pitch dark hole he fitted into.

A lump of numbness was felt by his hand as he discovered it on his head; blood trickling down on his face full of scratches and dusts out of the wooden pillars. His body was quivering: every muscle suffered torn ligaments, leaving his soul unscathed. Voices from the dark, he heard:

“Leave it be.”

“Stars aren’t here.”

“In vitam eternam.”

Fatigue wholly occupied his bodily spirit, clearing his mind from the voices that aggravated his lucid sanity. His eyes began to blur, preceded by series of blinking that ended to a swoon of rest.

Falling grits were seen in the corner of his mind, uncertain if genuine or out of reverie. The scent of jasmine awaken his spirit, transferring his view of the room to its original position. The bricks and pieces of plank blocked the now square-like hole, causing him to agitate in a state of ferocity. His eyes were flooded with tears from the irritation by the wood husks of the crash. The possibility of assessing the room’s current state was blurred by the russet hue-fog of the bricks, made him hanker for the view of the altars.

He was confronted by the concern he had towards the altars, consecrating his mind hastily, unearthed his thoughts of concubines, wives, sons, and daughters. His part commissions of various immoralities were lifted body, parading within his thoughts, streaming along positive mirages. The secretion trial of his past, mournful state paused in points of gravity events, made him shiver with dripping perspiration running down from his temple; the side of his leg quiver; thoughts of anointing liquid from cup to cup made his body lay on the ground askance.

The light as it occupied the hole revealed inscriptions of different dialects; symbols from the bottom as he looked at it, traced by his eyes upward, revealed a dot of light, but looked far; he couldn’t reach. His breathing changed into impulses as he inhaled ashes of the russet bricks. Moments of touching the sides of the hole, he felt some watery substances in one of the sides, groped in the fist-size hole, and a stream of heavy water soon flooded his space. A grotesque feeling of dying struck his plan of escaping, concluding the mutilation of the subterfuge, “all hope is gone.”

The stream of heaviness - accompanied by excrement, scum, clothes patched with blood, girdles full of stabbed-like holes - hasten the rise of water by centimeters to meters, transformed the dot-like hole to a volcanic-size cylinder. A spark of bliss strangled the curled veins of his mind, through the hope seen on the view of the light source; preceded by muttering of novenas, peculiar voices, sermons from preachers to priests, and voices of distinguished accent as if his father and another man on a conversation:

“The beauty of our family was consumed by the berserk anger of the Golden Arbiters, judged the center of our chastity; strangled each of our women; forked the very heads of our ancestors; making jokes of claiming kinship to us; smothered the breasts of my wife until sliced in half in honor of their ruler; tied the old ones in the poles of their ship, with cloisters of crabs, left to meander amid the waves of the ocean, as if heading in some part of Asia, as though the wind as the appointed captain.”

The clear vision of the scenery was concealed in the eyes of the bearer, asserted the heavy gratuitous escape through the grasses of plum-like pillars, amid the poles with rounded chicken wires, along with dresses hanging were of greens and oranges.

Emancipation of Minerva

Creed and faith would consume a man of no value

With grievances of a feeling, and the strange sight of one –

Make believes and crimson volleys,

Would catapult the desired dignified fate of a one;

With a single grunt, would reveal a man

Who was destined to thrive.”

The planet obtrudes the boulders

With a single notion in mind,

That the Kaiser would be persecuted

Caused by a crime of making maidens palpable –

Lest of being oriented as a clergyman.

Heather once approach a nun,

Who points out the difference of make believes from the believers,

Which was oriented by the former that greatly manifested

The truancy of defeat for none.

Met by the temperament of Gods through dignified truth,

The planet pursue her cravings of the being

Who alighted her from the premises –

Which the spectacle between her and the Kaiser collide.

The being flew to the auroras; to the matters of whirling light

At the side of whining souls; to the hands

Of the admonishing flare – asunder to the planet,

Which forms inscribed the marveled truth.

The Kaiser rolled the wings of possible options: that he could

Mortify the planet’s well-being, with a clinched truth in hand,

Aimed the absolution of the Gods.

Noonan's Den

The tower of the magnificent one prospered,

Filled with youngsters – fourteen or seventeen;

Searching lights were fastened into places;

The admonishment to Mr. Noonan does quite persist.

Where the young ones were inhabited

Comes along with shackled chain with gruesome bolts.

Those who were characterized of vanity

Should be spurn out to a hell of den.

Trained by honour with a pinch of reluctant faith,

These children of tomorrow should never be expected to come home.

Rather to be persuaded by authority – pursuit Mr. Noonan sprinted to his suit,

To wrest the poor girl with such indignation.

Series of whining would be heard at the strike of dusk,

While dead rhymes of the chains resounding all throughout the dawn.

Should I nag Mr. Noonan for what he had done?

Either be placed on a torment, or be feasted by the maggots of his vengeance.

The creed of mine feuded me in a hell of a time,

Caused by him who hoarded the poor little ones.

I was hankered by such damnation, for which I myself, could never overcome;

Should never I, could ever comply.

Falls of tears flooded Mr. Noonan’s den,

Which came an instance, craved by authorities.

One thing was for sure wished by the children,

That a day would come that they would fledged out of Noonan’s tightened grip.

The Leader's Companionship

Self esteem makes a person believe that he/she is superior among others – leaving the left out ones freezing cold. Ingenious conceit could prevent a man from beginning a well-kept truth about his true vision about life and its whereabouts – seeking for intrinsic psyche that able us to think that living without a guided truth is a possible idea. Look at what the past proven conceptions did for those who patronized it, never include the people beyond our thinking could reach; people plagued by their act of heroism that made them established within their minds that they are apart from the mediocrity of the rabble. Inferiors are once superiors and , through an outrage act, befall – cruising in the mud blood’s pit.

Is serving a man is a deed of nobility? Out of duty? Creating such an ego within leadership, conceiving the ideas of his companions; disregarding the beneficial integrals of its diversity. Don’t block the free-flow of brains among other streams to wash away the aridity of thoughtless self-proclaimed born leaders.

Grieving from the outcome that ends the mirage of dreams, formed through such prejudices, makes one believe and prove that a single mind don’t belong to the naive flow of thinking: thwarting such predecessors and out of indignation, bustling the proposed the idea. The creed of sharing is disregarded in the form of racism; the act of reconsideration is afflicted to noble deeds, lest for having thrown amid the judgmental eyes.

No one can perceive the true aim of such procrastinates for having volunteered themselves of a certain duty, fitted for the unexpected ones – that the heart of spontaneous deeds come from the unexpected; that lucid beings are the normal ones, never the conspicuous’. Are they willing to sacrifice the thrones they’ve thought once theirs? Could it be possible for us to expatriate them towards our class? They are just there, trying to be first class; trying to be one; voluntarily to be one; more than what it takes to be one; succumb in the liquids of desire to be one; but woke up mourning, through such defeat from the unexpected ones.

Believers of them through the crisis of facts could be pursued in the gates of doom. People that share thinking of life without the concerns of their fellows which are all greeted as one; the lefties imagining that their objections would be heard, considered, and classified for a basis of alterations. The proclaimers doesn’t even bothered to be a catalyst of this act – for the sake of being the front liners of limelight.

As long as this routine remains, only the sanctions from the inferiors would be considered as the conceivable truth.

The addressed forms of self-considerate plebeians would reign, not in the manner of good purpose, but for their own way of administering their egos with an ample false praises from the lass and lad of the group, hoping that they will be a predecessor of this crave-for-power attempt.

The boat of persistence shall rise, despite the ones who obtrude and pull it into the mud pit. The concentration of constructing a key for battling out the connivance of the self-proclaims’ deeds for a presumable success shall be halted and suspended while there’s still time for planning reconstruction.

Every motive of them should be considered as a process of daunting the colors of deserving, while lurking in the hoods of knowledge mockery.

In this process lame degradation, superiors must be axioms of great thinking; inherit the benevolence of our Almighty; pull the analogy of it to the inferiors, so the latter would infer a hasten notion of consanguinity. The remnant of this act constitutes to the wholeness of the bestial deeds of the “procas.”

A gnat under a man's corpse

Feel free to fly my friend.

Land down on the nearest thing ahead;

Crack a joint for a good-will stretch.

Wrought the stench’s whereabouts route.



Look through wide spaces; feel free.

Fly around mirages of good looks,

To provoke a spectacle, peril crowd;

Would elapsed a minute to a man on his grave.



No little friend – don’t you be afraid.

Stuck on a loaf of meat? Bet you could come out.

Even if it’s a plank, or an approaching fly net,

Elusive enough is what you are.



Witnessed a crime? Be carried away is prohibited not.

Palpable parts – don’t stand a chance to survive;

Craved clots of blood – don’t be stubborn, accommodate none.

Trickling corpuscles might dried up; guess what, you’ve once stuck into?