The Terrible Writings of Quentin Montejo
Serial experiments on a fallen archangel who only wanted to regain just one wing back
Free of the World. Rain worshipper. Hermit. Tormented mind. Caged spirit. Defiant and eternal enemy of Destiny and Fate. Poet. Scientist. Artist. Daydreamer. He who laughs. Slacker. Sleeper. Romancer of wings and clouds. Fiercely independent. He who is ponderous. Games and anime junkie. Four eyes. Caveman. Nature-lover. He who doesn't think that hard. Non-smoker. Music-junkie. Counter of blessings. Guitar-hugger. He who simply wants what everybody else would like to be in this world and the next -- to be happy.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
She has eyes as deeply moving as a mourning sea
When they close, its as if clouds refuse to breathe
Just so they could wait again for them to open
Only her gently glowing eyes can move them again
A bouquet of roses, her eyes rested willfully on
Its color vivid and comely as the velvet night sky
What does she think of beauty, be it a rose?
If color be like fragrance, does it not have all?
Only these flowers knew the sound of her heart
As the maiden kept them close to her, almost embracing
Enough to feel the tempo of heartbeats stop and start
Echo a chorus in stanzas segmentedly harmonizing
Was it sadness? No, it was too happy for that tune
Was it happiness? No, it was too silent for joyful voices
Yet all the words in the world fell short of a meaning
To describe this portrait of the maiden and the roses
She has eyes as deeply moving as a mourning sea ...
Cool and calming like the aftermath of a rainy day
And the roses that reached to touch those raindrops
It, and it alone knew what those eyes tried to say ...
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