Pink lights and strobes run the globe
and they light the rows and rows of homes
with exuberant promises of pleasures untold
before they cast upon you the old green mold.
He sat in a fold so compact and protective
of his heart, dignity, and his under prerequisites.
Pink lights shone straight to his face, like pink icing
placating the desperate and lonely and vile
and across dirtied tiles, above columns of novels,
a man with arms wide and legs stuck in a cross
pitied him with eyes shut, spirit chasing the soul
but the skin that he dreams of and sees is too cold
for the spirit to save, he's too stiff to be moved
and the warmth he exudes is a crude little mood
that will vanish like lovers in Venus' presence:
can't find the egress that can save him from death.
No, not death of the cross, or Jesus' humanity--
not death of the lust even Venus can't trust--
not the blest promises you digest through her vest,
but the death of the love on her pink-shaded chest.
BINABASA MO ANG
Mahal-lika!
PoetryIs love just a a collection of feelings for one? Is it just a sweet section of chocolate for one? Hearken! My heart beats faster, the box shakes stronger -- Mahal-lika! Let us tell their stories of love divine, their love full of sin!
