black
Sir Abad signed my book! I got so... *kilig.* Haha!
Anyway, I wrote this today at Phil Lit class. I was inspired by the story The Art of Understatement by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo. Hope it's worth publishing someday! Feel free to comment. Haha! :P
P.S. I didn't know what to call it, so I just went with Black. :)
Black
March 16, 2009
She was in shackles
In the memory of an old painting
Of a man dressed in blue. The one
That she hung on the wall
Long before he had gone, the
Moment he gave it on
That rainy day in his bed.
It should have been a sign
Of impending doom-
Doom that would bring her
This inner bloodshed: the nights
She would waste on a bucket.
It was those eves of tears…
And her fear for the worst had
Struck at her temples.
When the magic had left,
And the painting was black,
And her shackles were lead and
Cast-iron, rusting
At her arms and feet,
Rusting at the fall
Of salt on those
Rainy nights she spent alone, the
Magic, she thought, could
Never be resurrected-
And the resurrection of her
Beating?
The resurrection that would never come-
The beating that
Would never be revived.
And the buckets would be filled
With her salt and her blood
Shed for that one figure
In that one painting
On that one night
On that one bed
In that one moment.
Anyway, I wrote this today at Phil Lit class. I was inspired by the story The Art of Understatement by Cristina Pantoja Hidalgo. Hope it's worth publishing someday! Feel free to comment. Haha! :P
P.S. I didn't know what to call it, so I just went with Black. :)
Black
March 16, 2009
She was in shackles
In the memory of an old painting
Of a man dressed in blue. The one
That she hung on the wall
Long before he had gone, the
Moment he gave it on
That rainy day in his bed.
It should have been a sign
Of impending doom-
Doom that would bring her
This inner bloodshed: the nights
She would waste on a bucket.
It was those eves of tears…
And her fear for the worst had
Struck at her temples.
When the magic had left,
And the painting was black,
And her shackles were lead and
Cast-iron, rusting
At her arms and feet,
Rusting at the fall
Of salt on those
Rainy nights she spent alone, the
Magic, she thought, could
Never be resurrected-
And the resurrection of her
Beating?
The resurrection that would never come-
The beating that
Would never be revived.
And the buckets would be filled
With her salt and her blood
Shed for that one figure
In that one painting
On that one night
On that one bed
In that one moment.