Literary Diaries

Deprivation

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

[they slither, and they hiss
like talking serpents , as they pass
through those discarded streets]

his head’s a sanctuary of sounds,
where he would hear his father 
sing him to sleep

[they drift, and they hover
like cigarette smoke would
inside that shady space]

his heart’s an ocean, and 
women are like waves; reflecting, 
and refracting along the shoreline of his life

[if only I could stop the sky
from raining,

the sky,
from raining]

then, no night would be too long, 
but, well, he’s drunk and stoned 
and he’s traveling solo

[will someone sadder, 
please, tell him,
please]

his skin’s a collage of 
despondency; a patchwork of 
a midday muse.

Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon. 
12.10.13

Passenger Seat

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

There’s a rush
between the many folds
of my flesh;
like a fast,
upbeat love song
in an afternoon ride.

-Never ending-
a lithe man inside,
clad in opportunities
and monotony of purpose,

yet, still I am
but a passerby.

Contented and consumed
by the passing world-
of flickering, fading
hints of its flight,
as father time
sits on my palm.

I am learning to exist:
half alive, half asleep
without a sweat in my stride
for someday-somehow
I will dwell like a sun,
dreaming under

headstone spires.

I Know Some Lonely House

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

Over the rigid and dreary mountains,
down by the riverside, amidst withered stalks
of stalwart weeds, and murmuring leaves
of pallid colors piled on the ground,
stood a solitary, large carriage house,
forlorn, beneath the balding glabrous
spreading tree, as though,
shrouded in mystery.

Devoid of noise, of neighbors,
and of life; here, the sun
no longer rises.

And so, bleak are the nights,
boundless and bare,
but what tales, the moon can tell,
this rickety house cannot,
apart from the rude winter wind’s wild
lament and a worn-out,
passive photograph.

I know some lonely house down by the riverside
where one too many lonely souls used to
reside.

Trampoline

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

I am the dot that ends all my written worries,
doubts and insecurities, in the palm of my diary,
many a time trapped between mottoes and ironies
like a burrow of ants in a field of peonies,
on a rainy day.

I am always right. I am always left.
Navigating between uncertainty of the unknown,
and certainty of my faith and opinions
tripping over a compass [of my life]
that doesn’t point
quite exact.

Like a feisty child, clinging at the tip
of a long-limbed leaf of a skirt of their mother,
I am tiny; a tiny drop of dew
insignificantly rebellious,
defying gravity
before merging with the endless
vastness of a pond.

I am no more than a statue,
or another ornament at an antique shop;
intricately fashioned, yet always,
pre-owned. Never mind I am not superstitious

I’m still hanging good-luck charms
at the doorstep of my dreams,
in hopes of becoming something,
you so wish to lionize.

Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon

Seraphina [The Stigma Of Your Eyes]

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

She came to me

like an apparition; white hot, clad in a wreath of lilies
and a girdle of pearls around her waist

a dream keeper that: meanders
among innumerable trees and valleys; straddles
between mountains and shabby railroads
as falling flakes of Jupiter’s moon

shimmer,
then float,

like a sprinkle of fireflies around her head.

With a mother-like godform, all curves and softness
do not be misled. Her stare,
hold powerful storms
and manipulating fire

the devil’s rock would crumble
the devil’s hole would collapse

she is a replica of an enchantress
whose rage, fiercer than death
whose resentment, greater
than the deadliest poison.

Do not fall asleep,
for she is the nightmare that stalks
your every slumber
your every dream.

Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon

Where Wild Violets Grow

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

There’s something nostalgic about
dimly-lit roads and faded footpaths,
rickety lamp posts and over-shadowing
tree trunks, as though, they exude familiarity
like the scent of monsoon winds before it rains.
But, my own heart, would only pronounce
me a treasonist, for, over many summers,
I learnt to love the peculiarities, the oddities,
and the nonsense of this land,
this foreign land… others call home.

Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon

Cerelia

by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

devoid of freshness,
a vague scent of life is diffused
in the air.

of mossy veins
entwined,
around her thigh
and morel mushrooms strewn
around her hair,

hushed forest would bow low
once she walks by.

the foliage would soon breed, then crawl
out from the undersides
of her shimmering
belly.

her clothes shall tear and rot
yet, her skin will remain,
speckled, with barest

trace of Autumn.

Copyright (C) 2012 by EvanescentMoon

Now
by MYRYN VILLAFLOR

the miles are simply longer
than the lifetime of a bird,
my days are measured
to solitary nights, I confine.
Those laughs we laughed;
those tears we have not shed;
those succinct moments
of silence and dissonance:
nothing else would matter
but those that curved my spine.

Breathe.
Exist.
Soar high, my little winged beauty.
Be a traveler that needs no map
or a floating leaf upon this life’s current.
Think of me.
Teach me to appreciate
the beauty of closures,
for I have lost the gift of laughter.

Yet every sigh I make
contains many long words
where every morpheme’s fusional,
much like us, bound to be together
if only, and, not a while shorter.

And as my thoughts escape into tears,
I whisper upon the gentle breeze
that kisses my polka dotted skin:
“My weary heart may cease to rest
my truest thoughts, my truest feelings
like summer twilight, ardent but chill
ever hanging in the corners of your being.”

all the May flowers have gone away,
and so are you: sweet memories
of times gone by;
riding upon the open roads
of chance

… where too many dreams and broken bonds lie.

Copyright (C) 2011 by EvanescentMoon