i.
a poet so poor of pain
within his soiree wine feigns
an insular atmosphere where
dismay and caterpillar
devour his smothered silence.

ii.
when have all the black and grey bled away?
when the ship night sky conveys
merely burdened by angels and stellarstars
merely bestow beauty as an entire
and leave naught other!

iii.
morning belongs to him in this day and age
daylight caresses and incinerate
such quiet resonance
and hence,
chants an echoless existence.

©2006 Miranda Putri Angelique


Like he told me: There is a time to live and a time to die. But a fine person is forever.

A silent metronome of raindrops/ delivering science into cold breeze at your window/ hush, let my name be only whispers upon night's shadow/ our perfect blues.

---

I was waiting for you.
I was sitting there at our bench, our bench yes indeed, waiting for you.
I was sitting there at our bench, our bench yes indeed, our bench made of concrete and birds turd, waiting for you.
I was waiting for you and I wrote that, dear.
I was waiting for you and I wrote that, dear, a poem, a fucking poem in my cellphone.
I was waiting for you and I wrote that, dear, a poem, a fucking poem in my cellphone. Maybe that's why it's so short.
Took me two hours.



And then of course, you came.