Lost and Found

Loneliness surged.
Reasons vanished.


I look around.
There are lovers, hugging each other.
There are couples, bickering over trivial matters.
There are strangers, savouring the last crave for lust.


Then


Loneliness intensified.
Reasons found.

I can't read

I begin a journey with a poem.

Then I write it out and recite it.

But, I couldn't finish my recitation.

Because my throat felt funny.

As if there were grease flowing in my throat.

I discover I can no longer whisper.

Like a dead poet.

No, it's too beautiful.

I must finish it.

Every prose appeals to me like a mazurka

Every word narrates to me like a nocturne.

I want to break free of the enigma in my throat.

To no avail, I break down and cry.

From that day onwards, I no longer write poem.

Because my best was already written.

Too bad, I can't read.

Perhaps a love poem is not supposed to be written in this way.

Or perhaps I can no longer love.

Wait

I've to stop, to hear my own murmur,
And the quiet protest of my mind.


As if there were a whirlwind in my stomach,
I refuse to stop, inexplicably.


Maybe I have grown used to this journey,
A never ending journey.
A journey without arrival and departure.


And so I sigh,
Rest, since further and further away,
Like a star in an unreachable galaxy.


Or, to rest, is tiring and exhausting as well.

Unfinished Job

There are always plethora of unfinished jobs.


Looking at the falling leaves, wondering when does the falling stop.
Glancing at the moving trucks, tracking the prints they left.


I always have a feeling that life will not just end,
Without a finale, a final judgment of all your deeds.

But come and think about it,
A finale means nothing nonetheless.


Because what matters in life is not how many mistakes you make in your life,
How many mistakes you recognize is what matters.


There are jobs, undone and unfinished, at any moment.