These are for the poetry reading group of Bacolod City - the Voices of the Underground. I haven't been active for so long that I feel rusty.
It would be an honor for me
To take your hand,
And present to you the world of my time.
This favor that you ask of me
Is no chore but rather a privilege,
A task I shall take on with pride.
I give you this world.
Much has changed, true
But some things have remained the same.
War, famine, pollution, disease,
Death -- humankind has yet to overcome.
So forgive me if I tell you fib
For the truth is, I am much too ashamed
To give you this world.
Whispered half truths draw out our faults --
His guilt, her paranoia and my sin.
The final verdict dragged as nails
Scraped down an empty board
Gouge out his fault. Her obsession accused my misdeed
As a play written on a blank epitaph.
Her blood color the field and her face,
The object of my worst nightmare,
Stare back at me with eyes empty and devoid of life.
His flag flies, like a beacon of harm.
He bids my submission.
My will fades and I surrender.
We dreamt of a world far too perfect
We dreamt of a world full of possibilities --
One without unpleasant circumstances.
We dreamt of a world where dreams are unleashed
And nightmares are but trivial encumbrances.
We dreamt of a world where opportunity spells success
And failure as a closed door making way for open windows.
We dreamt of a world unconstrained by the physics of mortality,
Where goals are easily within our reach, each blessed to endow.
But reality trumped our dreams
And our lackluster lives undermined the make-believe.
Our visions were but delusions and we were ridiculously idiotic
To dream of a world far too perfect.
The Lost Book
8 years ago