Your Majesty,

I’m here to write about a progress report on Earth.

Your plans have been truly amazing!

The results are what you wanted all along.

There was utter chaos amidst peace.

Here and there, everywhere.

Just what you ordered me to do.

People who have to kill, kill

people who have to die, die

people who have to be bad, are bad

people who have to be good, are good

well You get the story.

One can’t have too much of one thing.

To keep the world spinning and working properly.

Everything falls in line!

Balance is the key!

Well of course yours truly had a hand in this.
I wouldn’t let you have all the fun now, wouldn’t I?

I did a little mind tickling here

A little theology there

A little philosophy here.

All in good time!

People just want to get spun around in circles

thinking that they’re making sense.

But they’re actually moving their feet to the music

You composed, unknowingly and unwittingly dancing to Your music.

Yes! Bravo! Bravo! I just can’t help but be excited!

You’re imagination is unfathomable!

I just can’t let go of the music You

have orchestrated in my head, I just let go.
We’re inseparable by all accounts!

You need me and I need You.

Together we’d make a beautiful melody!

The truth shall set you free as the cliche goes

but it can also send you to prison

for whatever reason

depending on what time it is.

It’s all in Your hands.

War and chaos is a pretty useful tool that You have provided me

to keep up Your plans and dance to Your music.

To encourage people to choose sides when everything becomes gray.

For peace to live on and men to get better.

Or it could go the other way around

depends, depends, depends.

It’s all part of the orchestra, Your music.

Well this has been a long letter

it must come to a close,

till we meet again your Majesty.

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The downpour of light fills the air

steady drips across the stone faced pillar.

The Light shines forth in the darkness.

The initial burst of its rays are beyond comprehension

the blinding light veils its true beauty

and masks under a shade of gray.

Shadowed only by the fragments of the stars.

Hides in the twilight of the moon

tattooed on its moonshine.

Scattered in the molecules of the universe.

Bit by bit, star by star, the colors of tomorrow.

Forms a shape of its own to those who believe

wonders whether its true or not

like the shades of chameleon.

Dreads the day it reveals its diffused elegies.

Celebrates in the wake of a new dawn.

It works in the dreams of tomorrow and the verity of yesterday.

The Light chooses no sides

its beauty is beyond comprehension.

Taking its own shape under the stars of the universe.

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Time flies by like an eternal sleep

Words try so hard to make time weep.

Forever sliding through its veiny fingers

Like a dream amidst reality.

Trying so hard to paint a picture

With reflections from a mirror.

Always wanting and waiting

To find the self in the other.

Mannequins and statues make more sense

Because they do what their supposed to do.

Saying, “I don’t know what the future holds.”

Open the window and make love to the world

Be careful you might just catch a cold.

Wild Card

The buzzing sound of machine guns trail

the dust from the setting sun.

The dancing tunes of wails engrave

into plastic thoughts

forever in disarray to the music of time.

The blazing fire burns

in the backdrop of the morning dew.

Emblazoned on the songs of the birds of prey.

The ringing sirens trip the light fantastic

to the assonant melody of the wild card.

The orchestra of truth and lies sound off to the beat of the wild card.

From the rising sun in the east to

the tumbling darkness of setting to the west.

The music lives on in rhythmic jive

the blues of despair

the soliloquy of death

all in line, the standstill of time.

The great composer watches the world burn

as the wild card orchestrates.

The music settles and fades into black…

The dust ensconced on the gray streets.

The sound of sirens are replaced by wails of newborn babies.

Death brings forth new life.

The world spins madly on  to the harmony of the wild card.

The Room

Four corners of hollow white wood

a chair, a table fill the empty space within.

He stands there waiting.

Floating on thin air,

his body displaced in another universe.

He sees a clock with no hands.

An eternal sunshine filled the room.

He sees a door, opens it and tries to leave.

He walks into the darkness.

He was back to where he was—

the table, the chair, the four white corners

and the clock with no hands.

Tattooed on his being.

He sits on the chair resigned to his fate.

He looks up once again

sees the ceiling with its white paint

smooth surface and impenetrable hollowness.

Its light enters into the white in his eyes

sparking life back into him.

He wakes up with dreams of eternity.

He opens his eyes

the bright colors and paintings of beasts, fishes

and birds burn brightly in his eyes.

He sees a warm smile

something he feels he has known before.

The hands of the face wrapping its arms around him

carrying him gently.

The ceiling remains silent basking in its infinite glory.

They leave the nursery of white sheets.

A piece of paper falls on the floor

Name: Jose Antonio

Weight: 7.7 lbs.

Time of delivery: 12:00 A.M.

Date of birth: October 12, 1949.

Golden Acres

The sweet air of solitude stings his lungs.

His skin hangs loosely on his bones.

Emaciated, dying on a bed of decrepitude.

The ceiling white as ever looms over him.

Staring down…mocking his frailty.

It’s white paint and silky smooth surface—never faded.

“Why do you look down on me?” a raspy voice murmured.

Swallowed words filled his empty stomach.

A fleeting satisfaction of hunger revived his ragged bones.

“You’ve never faded, you’re always there with your white surface.

Looking on silently.”

He heard the words echo into his wax-filled ears.

Assurance of sanity, a grasp of something real.

As the sun sets the ephemeral whispers of the grave fills the room

he melts into his bed.

His hands, his skin, his face

lies indistinguishable under the pale folds of the cold sheets.

He glances around the room, sees nothing.

He floats on to nothingness.

He sees an old man lying on a bed…lifeless.

Cringing with pain, overflowing with tears of suffering.

Lifeless—nobody’s body.

The ceiling stares on

silently.

Retirement Fund

Looking up through the telescope of the night sky staring blankly.

His blank eyes are filtered with a dark glare of sadness.

Enveloped in a whirlpool of monotonous sights and sounds.

Caught in the middle.

The luminescent white paint of the ceiling looms over him.

Over his whole being its radiance touched his soul.

The light gleaned over his face

he saw a glimpse of a face,

indiscriminate through the thick undertone of whiteness.

Slowly but surely he feels his head getting heavy like a drunken stupor.

His eyes form a double vision

he sees the reflection of an old man and a child again.

Blackness.

The darkness peered its ugly head covering everything in sight.

He struggles to catch his breath.

Heaving forwards and backwards.

He felt two hands grabbing his neck.

Pulling the blackness from his mouth.

Choking him slowly.

He feels the life being drained from him.

The ceiling stares down silently.

Above the swivel chair, the table with the nameplate.

The letters on the plate corroding into nothingness

the rust clings like a helpless child on the nameplate.

He opens his eyes, awakening to a piece of paper

looking at him intently.

The paper is almost filled with mindless scribbles

of black blotches of ink…erratic and meaningless.

He sets his right hand at the end of the paper and places a period.