I’d rather have the telescope than the moon and the stars.
I think I save her
I drown her to death
as my vase holds her in the company of the gallant water
before I can understand
that this single she cut from her garden
has abandoned her jubilant existence
and has been slave to the one who pleases me
by killing the beautiful
The vase is urn
I was told you were powerful.
That you could change things.
That you were practically
I had believed them.
Yet why now
Do I feel such a silly kid
Who lost hopes as she lost her candy?
That was ordinary.
You are not as powerful as they thought you were
Or if I am mistaken,
Maybe I haven’t really met you yet.
Surprisingly I felt nothing.
Was it because it was just a photograph?
Or was it because I have drained all that stupidity?
I wish it was because I am now invincible to your trickery.
I wonder how it would feel like
when I get to see you again
and speak to you again
touch you again.
Could I be on my feet?
Be not like the saint you once portrayed.
Be not the musician you once depicted.
Be not the teacher you once hid into.
For I am now the artist that is not fooled by any fake magician.
I am the writer that writes about deceptions–
And now I have my charcoal and my paint, my paste and my thread,
my strings and my needles
To put things back together,
Except you and me.