'All pasts are like poems; one can derive a thousand things, but not live in them' John Fowles

Friday, January 28, 2005

Smile

Argh. I think the whole Internet’s down (can there be such a ridiculous phenomenon? But then it’s really happening...) And I’m blogging on MS Word. BleahZ.

Had my hair trimmed today at Far East. Hmm and do I like the cut? Lemme see… I like it as much as I fancy the sun rising and setting, the earth revolving around the sun, and the sun being just one of the many stars littering the cosmos. Go figure. Haha. I’m dog tired!!
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Smile

It’s blinding.
The sheen of your pearly whites
And the flare of stubbornness,
Your flair for loneliness.

Your lips, they curve upwards
Like the woeful crescent of the moon,
Speckled with bottomless pits
To be filled with the passing clouds
And the thickening mist.

It radiates but not lightens,
Consoles but not cheers.
For pray, don’t I see your droplets of ripe rain
Cascading down into those pits?

You’ve been holding on all this while.
Tearing through your smile.

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