I am a garden of fertility, where the roses of 
grief are grown & watered softly without harvest.
On me they grow, die, & regenerate.
I stare into the abyss where hope was buried
by despair. In there, her bones are all rotten,
held by dust & fed to needy termites.

I frown at the barren skies for she holds no promise
for the future, thus leaving my soul amidst darkness.

Weariness is an irresistible force that pulls my weight
into the deepness of depression. In my dreams, I make love
with butterflies, but reality strikes them to death &
replaces their joyful presence with the cruelty of angry bees.
So I have learnt to curve myself into a ball of accumulated pain. 


My name has been echoed loudly from an unknown phase
where love’s aura resides, but in her delight, I find nuisance.

I embrace silence & swallow the night that paints my name
in the mind of a girl whose tongue professes love,
which she pours in metaphors into me, to fill up my heart.
But how do I say my heart is a broken glass, smashed on the crust of hardened sorrow? 
How do I tell her not to waste her love
on the body of a dead boy who knows not how to love.