Iyong Mga Bulong

Your whispers are like

a Rastafarian flower --
a symbol of trinity
and the very soul
of Reggae music,
a string of Haiku
that is abandoned
by its own
syllable count and imagery,
a 55-minute Jeepney ride,
and August.

The sounds of Manila
amidst bittersweet lullabies
make Jasmine petals flutter
in the woebegone western wind.

I can draw the
constellation of the archer
in your eyes
while you are
in search of a compass.

I think I can
comprehend this atlas
illustrated by your
misconceptions and
suppressed desires,
but I am wrong.

You swallow my metaphors --
only to find me
comparing you
to an abstract painting.

Your whispers are like August --
destined,
a lost canvas,
and a coffee-stained flower
mistaken as Anthurium.

Iyong Mga Bulong = Your Whispers