Saturday, May 24, 2008

Baguio, the Return


I whisper to the wind
as I fold myself
like a fan.
I have no one to hold:
No fingers fusing
like candles melting
in the dark.

In Burnham Park
I walk
with nobody to talk to
but myself.
of my own making
stalk me in silence,
repeating everything
I do.

Is it your absence
I seek
among the pines?
Or the reek
of your presence
like the needles
pin-pricking my senses
with their scent?

Are you heaven-sent,
an angel invisible
but omnipresent?
Or the devil
come to torture my soul
with the mist,
like dragon's breath
that shrouds
Baguio with myths?

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