Faces

A fable stays on rancid plunge, Even this day with idle glance. Anais Nin tells in glimpse and din, How psyche dwells in strains within. Here for a while with a strange book, Words stretch odd style in ***** outlook. Browse through old tints of browning leaves, You sense time mint passion most brief. Words come to life as if to show, A telling strife where strangle grows. Trysts of a sort can string lost cause, Quaint this odd lot of sensuous pause. Glimpse of play and broken wings, Decay now stays as brisk time flings. Disdain and pain mutter complaint, Now no one gains from mad refrains. So time stumbled that distant day, Pride now humbled yet gone away. Faces now crowd upon the page, Languish most loud on silent stage. Strains of hushed words in frozen feel, Thoughts once unheard distill odd thrill. A journal streaks of thawing wit, A surge now peaks in scattered bits. Can you now hear the chatter odd? No sense for tears to cluster sod. Leon Enriquez 02 November 2017 Singapore