We share the same resonating
recluse in our bones;
The peace that have once been
destroyed by storms of our
own love for
disasters—
Now has risen back from
the ashes,
forgiving and new.
Malu
How can one write about Malu,
when Malu herself is free?
The very words she conjure into anything
can’t be used at her
to be.
She is her own, as the world is in itself
whole,
she is a hundred million things,
she is the better parts of things,
She is her will, as the Mover willed the
object to move.
How can one write about Malu,
when Malu herself could write
Besides herself, the only one that knew
her was her pen at night.
She is forever, as the soul is in itself
infinite,
she is the overwhelming awe,
she is a blind man’s auroras
She is her love, as how Love
was spoken
for the first time.
of nights and tempests 