sa likod sa simbahan
misaad siya
gidawat niya ang iyang
saad sama sa bato
ang atubangan sa simbahan
maoy nahatag sa lain

love sometimes
is unrequited, and the best way to respond
to this matter
is to say that it is not love at all,

that this is just pure lust,
and every night that you cannot hold what you love most,
you always go into the labyrinths of
rationalization,
this is not love, it is not love
how can love be like this?
at the end you arrive at the threshold of pain,
where pain is not pain anymore
but a lesson learned,
and you still keep on saying
proving to yourself that you are right
it was love, yes it was the purest of love
felt,
but it was wrong and wrong is wrong
and nothing but wrong,
and you rest your head upon a pillow
beside no one,
declaring yourself as King
as survivor of the greatest misery of all,
love unrequited
as the king of love clapped by the pains
of the majority,
well, you ended it well,
you have a face, a body,
everything in you is intact
nothing diminished, nothing gained,
whole, and
still full of love, despite.

once, i was
a philosopher,
and by chance
i met an ex-disciple
in air
who says
that i was too
cruel to
twist her brain,
but i still
talk to myself
becoming proud
that at least
she still keeps
her brain,

though twisted
in some
sense.

as others work their way
bury themselves in the thick of the
paper forest
(in this place birds have
no place for nests
the ants have no sugar chunks
to carry)

i still find my way on top
to hum a song
to build a castle on the clouds
and drift