Blackhole

There is an alternate universe beyond crystal mirrors

It tells its own story in its own time

Through a a pastiche of tunnels and mirrors of memory

Carried away by jeeps, tricycles

Made a shadow of footsteps on the esplanade

Waiting in a room filled with light

This is not the story of I but You

You wakes up to the sound of trains

It muffles the song of the birds but it has its

Own melody something like the melancholy

Patter of rain and whistling of leaves in summer

You gets up fetches

a pair of black rimmed glasses

black leather gloves

some old Chuck Taylor’s

a pair of earphones

You is trying to remember something

Something familiar something written

On the wound of the city

Memory refuses to reveal itself

It was not yet time

It was forgotten in a room filled with light

You rides the train to Manila

sitting next to I but

You does not know this

You is concerned with the

passage of light hidden in

the darkness of

the tunnel.

The train comes out of the darkness

Light bathes the train station

There is no sound of bullets nor of screams

Just the steady rustling of the wind

You comes out of the doors

the earphones were left behind

The music of the trees blow steadily

Into You’s ears its melodious ensemble

Forms music from an ancient time

The hum of leaves mimics the sound of the violin

The wind resembles an angel’s voice

Soft and supple upon You’s naked ears

Time has a way of playing games

it creates memory from the

past to the future

hidden behind clandestine

doors of moonlight

one is not really sure

if the past, present or

future is staring directly

through the mirror

It is day again for You

You hears distinctly the music of the birds

And the noise of cars and blaring horns in the street

You gets up fetches

a pair of black rimmed glasses

black leather gloves

some old Chuck Taylor’s

You is in the train station again

Sitting next to I

But You only hears a voice a faint whisper

It reminded You of music

It is dark again in the tunnel

You comes out of the doors

You’s Chuck Taylor’s

and black gloves

are gone

You is left with

bare hands and feet

The cold touch of the concrete

And the sweltering heat of the sun

Leaves a mark on You’s skin

You remembers the music playing in the trees

Time does not wait

it suddenly moves

in fast forward

hidden in

routines

You is in the train station again

You forgot the pair of black rimmed glasses

With bare eyes, hands, feet, ears

You sees I sitting to the right

You sees a gaping wound

The wound is getting bigger You cannot avoid it

You is left with nothing but I

We are often afraid of time

and what it reveals to us

we create memories

instead

It is dark again in the tunnel

Light is waiting outside.

Blackhole

There is a scar on the city that never seems to heal

It reveals its history with each wound

The scrape of hooves on Intramuros, the patter of feet in Fort Santiago

The feet chose to draw its own destiny in bronze

Amidst the fray of muffled bullets silenced by lips

We never seem to hear the sound of trains

passing through tunnels

as memory walks down the stairs

to buy its ticket

and look for a seat

between two bent elbows

The doors slide open the I comes out and hears the sound of bullets

The gun loaded with footsteps  whizzing by the wounded street

It is not 1896 the I is unabashed the bronze is covered with dust

Guns have been replaced with sweet promises

The wound grows bigger as the I reaches out to buy a Sampaguita

The city bleeds as the sound of trains blur into the tunnels

Light fades inside the tunnel

it is frightened by the

future hidden on the other side

it holds onto time

it refuses to let it go

the I is frozen

on the seat between

two bent elbows

The I leaves behind a trail of shadows it enters the train again

This time in Katipunan, the I no longer hears bullets

Just the sound of wind and walking grass

The I remembers memory on a stone of how moths

Linger under a tree waiting for a playful child to touch its cheek

A flick of the wrist a ticket comes out of a tunnel

The doors close leaving behind memories on a stone, it is dark again

The I is no longer alone

between two bent elbows

it is sitting next to You

the I does not notice the wound

it thinks of the city

its old streets and

bronze footsteps

It is the same day again 1896 the firing squad prepares the bullets

All the I can hear is fuego the body is falling into the ground

Suddenly frozen in stone and bronze

The last uttered word written on paper hidden in a lamp

The bronze footsteps leave behind a trail for the fireflies to light the way

The I notices it is no

longer alone between two

bent elbows reaching out

reluctantly to You

it sees the wound

I waivers it sees the

wound getting bigger

it pulls back its hand

with a faint whisper

it suddenly found itself

upon the wound

it stops bleeding

there was no blood just a scar

The train stops the doors slide open the half light bathes the station slowly

Upon the landing of yellow lines were pieces of stone

A tint of bronze and dust and faded memories found

There was nothing left of I but You.

Aliens

I.

There is a house in Quezon City where light is afraid to enter. There is no sound because the trees don’t want to listen. The air doesn’t bother to make a pit stop only passing by to pick up the old dust and yellowed newspapers. The paint unrecognizable, the creases of dirty white tearing from the walls losing consciousness of time whisked away by the wind. The green grass lost its old luster hiding behind its own shadow from the sun. The old wooden door is closed and the dilapidated windows are half-open. Everything left behind as it was, the upholstered sofa slanting a little towards the bedroom door. The living room table’s right foot juts out poking the chair’s left leg. The mugs separated from the glasses, the spoons from the forks. Order set apart from chaos. The senile refrigerator forgot how to turn water into ice, the coffee cups can’t tell water from wine, the plates are confused which of them are for breakfast and which are for dessert. It does not know its name. It does not care of these little details. It does not know of its use. A rumbling sound enters the driveway a familiar echo rustles the leaves of the trees. It hears voices. The air crashes into the steel plates of the car. It feels pain. The dilapidated windows reveal the upholstered sofa, the wrinkle that could not be straightened out and the yellow spots of age. It sees.  Slow easy steps enter the house, the knob turns to the right, the door is left ajar, clear fingerprints are left to linger on its skin. It feels.  Light floods the dark room, it blinds the coffee cups, the mugs, the spoons and forks, the table, the sofa, and the refrigerator they are not used to such light.

II.

The soft light illuminates the room darkness slithers into the cracks in the wall. The chair sees the table poking its left leg, the upholstered sofa sees its wrinkles and yellowed skin offended by its grotesqueness, the refrigerator felt shame for not turning water into ice. The shadowy figure looks around takes the design in digests and churns out a few words through his cellphone. Brushes the dusty table with his left hand and sits on the chair goes back to his car and brings a broom and a vacuum. He starts cleaning and scrubbing. Arranging the furniture and clearing the dust. The sofa realized its was not supposed to be slanting towards the bedroom door. The dust and stains removed it feels fresh and new it remembers its former beauty. The table’s right leg replaced with a new one no longer poking the chair (a sigh of relief came out from the chair’s cushion). The refrigerator plugged in which revitalized its old motor making blocks and blocks of ice much to its delight. The man brings out a sachet of Nescafe and creamer it takes a coffee cup and mixes, the coffee cup remembers it was not for water nor wine. It remembers its name. It cares of these little details. It remembers its use. It remembers the memory of light its warmth and luminosity.

III.

The man leaves the house momentarily wipes his face with his handkerchief removing the dirt and sweat. Reaches for his cellphone on his right pocket dials seven digits a woman picks up on the other line. He says, “let’s go home.”

Teleportation

It says on the sign

There was a boy standing in the spotlight of the sun looking

“Teleporter”

at an old church wall. There he saw two white hand prints, the same

it takes you

size as his hands. It was still wet, he brushed away the dirt and rubble

anywhere you

fascinated with its shape and light. The wet white paint glistened

want to go.

on his bright brown eyes. The warmth of its radiance lured him

The shortcuts

towards its surface like the man on the moon reaching for the sun.

through light

Slowly, the boy’s hands landed on the hand print’s rocky white

and the crevice

facade. With the blink of an eye, he heard a voice calling his name

of a door.

from the window of the old church. The voice a sweet whisper of dew

Fragments of

trickles down from the absence of sound to the tangible realm of

silence engulfed

words and sentences. With the blink of an eye, he is on his feet

in a seashell.

running towards a door across a sea of green grass, his feet touching

With the blink

the space between the concrete road and the moist of rain. He stopped

of an eye

abruptly, the window of the sun reveals the church in the center. The

the soft whispers

door opens its mouth and calls his name. The familiar voice of dew

of the wind

enters his ears and draws him in. The boy walks towards the voice,

carried to the sea

the new walls coated with fresh white paint filled his nose. His

dropped on the palms

hand brushed against the wall it was warm in his eyes, wet

of a lost lover.

and smooth on his hands. He looked up at the window and saw

Moment upon

a girl the same age as he with bright brown almond-shaped eyes,

moment drifting in

black hair up to her nape. She calls out his name through the

time that stands still

window. The letters formed on her lips turned into words

with the blink

acquires shape and form into sentences pierces his eyes and tickles

of an eye.

his ears. The boy enters the door of the church the aroma of varnished

Morning collides

pews touches his nose and the light of the chandeliers blinds his eyes.

with evening

But the boy does not waiver he moves along stairs and corridors.

not ready to

At last, he reaches the room with the girl with the bright brown eyes

surrender its glow

shy hands reach out, the forefinger makes one small step but the

to the moon.

hand ignores the giant leap. He looks at her and opens his mouth

It is memory

the butterflies refuse to come out. The smooth white skin of her hand

that departs

touches his. Her hand fit in perfectly under his palms. She looked

not time

at him her eyes said, “it’s all right I don’t understand either but what

with the blink

I know is this the time we have right now is real.” It is memory that

of an eye.

forgets not time. With the blink of an eye he is gone. Back to the old

The present

church wall and white hand prints. The boy looks at his hand and

trickles down

sees the white paint. He forgets the warmth he hurriedly wipes away

into the cleft

the paint on his hands. It is not yet time, it is not yet love. With the

of the past

blink of an eye he is already a man no longer a boy. Back to the old

seeping through

church wall and white hand prints. His scarred and calloused hands

the window

much bigger than the print. He reaches out to the memory of childhood

to the future

a lady with bright brown eyes walks by he touches her hand and remembers

with the blink

of an eye.

A Tribute to the Stars

Lying upon the green grass of a cold dark September rain. I look up at the stars and start to wonder. They look so close yet they are light years away. We can only see white flickering like fireflies in my palms. Yet they shimmer across a spectrum of rainbow. Depending on age and temperature. The light of the stars trickles on a black canvas. At first, a mere flicker of a candlelight hidden behind the darkness revealing only a shadow of its infinite brightness. Not fully illuminating the green of the grass nor the light of the fireflies. Maybe because it is afraid to show its light or ashamed of its color or maybe it is afraid to be alone in the dark of night. Maybe it would rather melt into the background of sameness and fade into black. But the glaring light of the North Star reminds them of their luminosity. They’re not doing anybody favors by keeping to themselves. What of Orion’s Belt? The Big Dipper? Of Gemini? If not for a constellation? What of light to lost sailors? Of hopeful children wishing upon a star.

Maybe we are like the stars scattered in millions across a black canvas interwoven by an invisible thread lead by that one North Star to shed light upon this world.

Space Odyssey

I. Doors

There is something intriguing about doors

The soft light peeking through its crevice,

a penumbra of whittled air trying to escape

or come in through the cracks.

Mouths half-open singing a silent song.

The creaking sound as it swings from side-to-side.

Reveals a half-lit room

or shuts it in total darkness.

A door can have many faces

of wood, steel, glass,

or even just a piece of cloth.

A door can have many colors

Red as the summer breeze

upon a backdrop of the March sun.

As pale as a full moon

hiding its craters behind stolen light.

A door tells its age with each crease of

wood chipped away by the wind.

Wayward scratch of leaves

a carved hand of mist.

Old paint hidden behind a wreath of flowers.

It never brings to light its true self

just a glint of foreshadowing

half-open, half-closed.

II. Windows

There is something intriguing about windows

The soft light peeking through its crevice,

a penumbra of whittled air trying to escape

or come in through the cracks.

The tinted glass reveals a guarded secret

a closed window hiding from rays of the sun.

Thwarting the touch of the wind

and the silent music of fireflies.

Afraid of the sun and the secrets it uncovers.

An open window that bridges hands,

allows the soft tune of silence to trickle

slowly upon its surface.

Acknowledges the soft light of

stars under the night sky.

One can always paint the incandescent

stars or even the glowing moon upon its surface.

No matter how hard it tries it betrays

itself once opened.

The window to a new world

a space odyssey

unclothed by the eyes of light

fully opened or closed.

Anti-Gravity

I

The sound of falling leaves

passed from shoulder-to-shoulder.

II

Amidst a sea of moonlight

scattered by rays of light.

III

Whittled into pieces by honking cars,

of blinking lights, and stifling nightmares.

IV

Boxed in a box, locked by locks

of murmurs etched on a stone.

V

Ephemeral words written by the lips

an articulate cloak of shadows.

A semblance of poetry.

VI

The stroke of a pen

mimesis of language

caged in a period

god-like.

VII

That kiss of the eyes.

The shy dance of hands

hidden under a cup of coffee.

VIII

A nod, a knowing look

A witty smile.

Unspoken.

Carried by the wind

Written on the lips of leaves.

IX

That man on the cross.

Of punctured hands and feet

On the blood of the sky.

The wisdom of the tomb.

X

A child’s eyes of laughter

its touch of rainbow

on a pale surface of glass

breathes new life

upon a dying world.

XI

Oh, how I seek for you!

Silence.

Language of the Gods.

Time Traveling

Man … can go up against gravitation in a balloon, and why

should he not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop or

accelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension,

or even turn about and travel the other way.

-H.G. WELLS, The Time Machine

I

As a boy, I saw my life in a glass of milk.

The chocolate chip cookies that mom used to make

softly caressing my tongue. The taste

a bite of candied childhood of scarred knees

and singing in the rain. Its sweet aroma

suffuses each nose with lola’s recipe.

Passed from first daughter to first daughter,

imbued with the image of love and care.

Of spotless white sheets and warm freshly ironed clothes.

Arranged by color the blues from the whites. By use

the underwear from the shirts, the shirts from the

pants. Arranging life for a reluctant little child

who finds laughter hiding in the closet of playful disorder.

The world hangs in the balance of revolving doors.

To-and-fro empty attics of dusty memories

old songs of laughter, black and white photographs

of worn out wedding gowns and tuxedos.

In that kitchen where lola’s yellow apron

was a fixture of wonder and delight.

The smell of tinola and adobo lingers upon

her smooth white dress and airy fingers.

In that lawn secrets hiding under a Mango tree.

A lack of understanding why Adam kissed Steve.

Upon a string of a blue balloon carried off

to a foreign land by a jet fighter. An astronaut

to the moon. Soiled hand upon soiled hand

on that grass of shared dreams and chocolate ice cream.

The world filled with so many possibilities.

“I can’t wait to grow up.”

II

I liked walking into lolo’s room. A pastiche

of Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable with a dab of

musky old perfume. His old stories of days

carried off by the wind and whispers of the

leaves. Of Japanese bombs raining a cloud of

nimbus. Re-awakened tales of youth vivid

across a white canvas. A farm of carabaos

an untouched land of rice fields and corn.

Calloused hands, sweltering heat.

The telling of old jokes and antics with his dentures off

of men I didn’t know of Charlie Chaplin and Houdini

never ceased to light a smile on my face.

But what I remember most about lolo were

his bright brown eyes. Its as if they were

my own, upon a clear blue mirror of water.

III

A summer of first loves upon the dew of sunlight.

Take a picture with a bottle of champagne.

Hold it in your hand, never let it go.

Dance with it in the moonlight, till the dawn breaks.

Make love to it under the red hot sun

until the music melts in your palms.

It must be love.

Love or something like it.

Enclosed in a letter.

IV

I wish I could hold you forever

in the stillness of a picture.

Your warm smile, and sweet demeanor.

Breakfast in bed of bacon and eggs,

of careless whispers in the night.

The way your dress twirls when we dance

to Eric Clapton’s The Way You Look Tonight.

Your memories slowly slipping from my hands!

Trickling slowly on that dark night of rain…

Your slippers under the bed, I resuscitate them

to bring them back to life. I walk on them on that

same green grass of our first kiss. To feel your feet

to feel your skin on my soles. I wear your glasses

Our child’s first steps, our wedding day!

Flashes in an instance.

Bring back those sweet memories

and hold time in my palms!

V

As an old man, I see my life in the laughter of a child.

The mirth of patintero and the relish

of chocolate ice cream after the heat of the sun.

His wary steps and bright eyes.

His uncertain words of a death foretold.

I can only show him my scars of

unseen dreams and nightmares.

Of stories of years gone by and love lost.

His bright brown eyes of wonder

and dreams of traveling on a balloon.

Re-invigorates my old and wary steps.

Life is beautiful in the present.

The Space Between

I once saw a girl who had a pearl.

Who wore a mullet and ate a brisket.

Who danced with two left feet

but never missed a beat.

She winked at me with her silver eyes

that said, “wanna see a surprise?”

across a sea of waving bodies

swimming with silver fish.

The Red Sea parted, the angels farted

as they sang, “thy death be departed.”

As I walked  across a splinter of the blues

mixed with gin and juice.

I carried only a hotdog with me

red as the sun stuck in a bun.

I saw her emerging from a strobe light

with two green melons and a furry cat.

She wore a skirt short enough to attract

attention long enough to cover the essentials.

Matched with a shirt that said, “AA-TEHN-SHUN!”

I was hit in the head

with this song in my stead,

“you raaaiisssee mmeee upp

so I can stand on mountainsss…“

Must be the rum, going up my bum.

She whispered in my ear

hard enough to hear,

“Wanna come?”

I said why not.

“Do you wanna see the space between?” she said.

“Why don’t we dance instead?” I said.

“I’m good with my hands,” she said.

“I’m good with a pen,” I said.

Maybe we can make a poem together.

I gave her a drink to break the jinx.

The space between appeared like a sphinx

through a smoke of mirrors.

The space between was nothing special

Beethoven’s Symphony no.9 played all throughout

unicorns and pixies walked round-a-bout.

There was  a big black wall after a sixty-foot fall,

that had many names painted in different colors.

One was Saleem, an Alfred, an Agapito.

There was one as long as Dikembemutomembeniko

one as short as Ben. Written with different pens.

I took my pen and wrote my name

on that big black wall of fame.

I woke from my trance after that dance.

She gave me her cat, to give it a pat.

I gave her my dog wrapped in a bun.

Oh!!! We had so much fun!

The champagne popped, sprinkled with dew.

The endless chatter, filled the platter

of the night of milk and laughter.

I woke up from my dream stuck in a seam.

I saw at the table, Aesop’s fable.

About a cat and a dog eating two green melons.

It was just the bottle of coke and rum.

Outer Space

I

The deep black vastness holds the

minute planets upon its airy palm.

The Illusionist’s breath weaves its magic,

a dream transpires through the mirror of mists.

A flick of the wand, a sleight of hand

Abracadabra nothing-to-something

tiger springing from a cage, rabbit out of a hat.

A green planet, a sonorous blue

Red as fire, black as ice.

A white winged wheel of stardust.

Poisonous wheeze of zephyr

lilts in the heavens. Mixed

with the dust of life

rises like a phoenix.

An absence of light

brings forth the darkness.

The sun stands in its altar!

Life-giving, life-taking.

Imbued upon each planet vividness

of life trickling down the silvery spine

of the milk of the galaxy. A facade

of death upon its scars of meteorite.

The space odyssey, to the unknown

like the first steps of the man on the moon

across the Magician’s palm.

More questions to answers

than answers to questions.

You’d never really know how alone you are

when you look at the stars.

II

The multitude of stars swimming in your eyes,

blackness staring into the unknown.

More questions to answers

than answers to questions.

It reminded me of how the universe was created.

The millions of gases, rock and dust came to form

the planets and the moons.

The white of Venus, the red of Mars.

The cold black ice of Pluto.

The rings of Saturn dancing in the stars

The right mix, the right temperature.

Not too cold, not too hot.

The exact distance from the sun.

The precise combination of brown,

green, and blue spread across

a sea of rainbow. Each picture breathing

the fire of life. Each unique. Sending

its offering upon the altar of the sun.

III

The millions of sperm swam

towards the shrine of birth.

To reach their sun and claim

what is rightfully theirs.

Like a lion pouncing on its prey.

A shot at life. A shot at death.

Glory goes to the one who swam the

hardest and the longest through the

poisonous fluids of its voyage.

A lack of motion meant certain death.

Like a champion running a race.

Each distinct, with its own

strengths and weaknesses.

With its own complexion, with its own memory.

But what comes out is you, and only you.

A name, a face, a race.

A John, a Bianca, a Tanaka, a Jose.

White. Black. Yellow. Brown!

Dark eyes, brown skin, pug nose.

The right size to till the farms,

the right size to reach the stars.

The right mind to create,

the right mind to destroy.

Each hand, each strand.

Each finger, each toe.

A part of a whole meant for the

Painter’s masterpiece.

One-of-a-kind! Offering itself to the universe.

It was a miracle.

It was magnificent.

It was real.

Android

It’s you but it’s not you.

Same touch of summer in your hands.

Same brown earth in your eyes.

Same taste of wine  in your lips .

Same tune of morning dew in your ears.

The frost in your smile

the light in your guile.

The doll’s dance athwart

a flick of cards.

Master of language

understood by none.

The dark whisper through

the fusion of reverie.

The tinge of delight

like morphine’s kiss.

Master of disguise

known to all.

The virtuoso’s divine symphony

of life and death.

Half-believing, half-delirious.

The drunken stupor of a child born

on the stroke of midnight

of black-and-white.

The mirth of duplicity etches on the skin,

like the second skin of a leper’s dreams.

The mask that laughs in front of a mirror

worn over a million times.

It was not real that we believed in

just smoke in a glass.

Chronicles of Days Gone Bye-Bye

R-r-r-r-r-ing its 7:00 A.M. Monday.

Its raining cats and dogs outside.

Mr. Mr is traversing through the rocky roads of space.

Looking for the hideous face of time.

The shower runs hot and cold.

The drops of clear water touch the skin

gently, dripping slowly

feeling its very being.

The towel wraps itself around the naked body.

An erratic mix of emotions trembles between the towel’s fine hairs.

The screams of the hot air rustling from the hair-dryer

caresses the jet black hair.

It puts on its Barong Tagalog and looks into the mirror.

Its shapeless body tapered by the Barong.

Walking in the lightness of gravity.

Traversing endlessly to The Work.

The shapeless bodies with Barongs

sit on wood shaped into a thing called a chair

by the shadow lurking within the shapeless beings.

Things called eyes stare aimlessly

through the thing called sky named Manila.

The endless carousel at the end of the day.

The museum of the first kiss, the first love,

mother’s embrace, father’s firmness, grandfather’s farm.

Locked in a box somewhere in the shapelessness of time.

Traversing endlessly looking for the hideous face of time.

The Place

A specific place, somewhere in the threads of time

It’s always that time, it’s always that time.

Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere

A box in your head, a space in your bed.

A sound in the sphere, a howling soar.

A place to hold onto, for solace for grief.

For a fleeting moment, three seconds of rapture.

Played over and over again.

The child never leaves The Place.

In fear or in love, he’s always there.

Lurking in the shadows, and basking in the light.

For the clock without hands spins time.

Rewinding, in fast-forward, stopped, played.

The endless Saturn spreads throughout

a lucid blue and pallid sunset.

The Place is all ready there…

You’re all ready there.

Staring into a starless universe.

The paleness of an empty canvas

that is your face.

The painter is The Place

putting, doodling, blotching,

splashing, scratching

whatever it wants onto the canvas.

A swatch of red, yellow, blue.

A gradient of rainbow,

graveyard black and gray

spread onto the space of the canvas.

The Place.

A specific place,

somewhere in the threads of time.

It’s always that time

It’s always that time

Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere.

There

There, there, there

You’re over there

not here, right there

I’m always over there

not just right here

but over there

in the darkness of the abyss

in the light of the rising sun

always over there

not just right here

in you and in me

the infinite reality

the concepts of time

in the precepts of serenity

the silence howls

like the screaming of a thousand whores.

There, there, there

You’re always over there

a specific place,

a specific time

and a specific space

outside and inside

at the same time

bending forwards and backwards

threading through the sooty air,

the clear blue water,

the ephemeral fire,

the golden-brown earth.

There, there, there

You’re always over there

not here, right there.

It’s always the right time.

Right there.

Lines

How do you draw a line?

Is it just a vertical, horizontal or slanting streak of ink?

How do you draw a line,

straight, forward or backward?

Or is it just a figment of the corners of my mind?

Something abstract concocted by the eyes and the brain.

A black blotch of the gray matter.

Effaced and bounded by the human psyche.

Put up as walls to encapsulate parts into a whole.

It can be dotted, straight, circular,

going round and round infinitely.

Nothing even stopping it.

Drawn closely and interwoven it forms

a shape, a face empty and desolate.

Increase the filling and add more lines,

it makes a distinct appearance

on the blue glaze of the smooth face of a mirror.

Forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards.

Locking time within its surface,

throwing a lasso line into a fragmented memory.

Slowly tracing its sinewy blithe figure,

the line rears in the shattered pieces.

Piece by piece from different realities.

How do you draw a line?