Poetry and Prose Collection XXIV
*all writing pieces originally from Instagram @mi.haloes*
“casino house”
You play the cards I never had the chance to hold, only grace with a mere glance,
but with a glass of iced whiskey sitting in your hand, you catch my gaze in yours for a brief second. You usher me to cheat through the reflections in your sunglasses, with periodic linking of our eyes.
As I lay my chips on the table, I have an unknowing epiphany to give my trust to you, exposing all my vulnerability to you,
and in response, you do the same.
And now we simply play for fun, no losses and no risks, gambling our emotions away in this casino house tonight, and winning nothing aside from this ember ignited by our cards drenched in whiskey.
(2023, Nov 8)
“born on a cusp”
Born on a cusp, the lion and maiden glisten as starlight photons sent by a pre-destined prophecy. A glistening hope for what may come after a birth in a rainy season; a glistening hope for a lost soul in a forest of prickly over-criticalities and analytical observations,
accompanied by a complimentary waltz between the Sun and Mercury.
Born on a cusp, the paradox of cooling earth and rampaging fire conflict to create the bedding preserving one’s roots in the wealthy downpours;
the soul of its chosen target moulded into a fragile wineglass constructed from its clay.
As the summer breeze of late August only begins in the coral-coded sky evenings, the stars of the lion begin to favor its maiden — a goddess of fertility and agriculture.
A mother overlooking her children as a blooming rose in a field of carnations.
A little lovelorn and overbearing, a little nimble and haughty, a little dainty and barbed.
A little Leo subdued by its Virgo.
It’s always a little bona fide adventure when born on a cusp:
the Cusp of Exposure.
(2023, Nov 10)
“angel tragedies”
I watch her faerie wings crafted by a sacred flame wilt under the hellfire of rain.
A delicate being,
a sunlit soul,
clipped under the law laid down by her fear of flight and endearment.
I watch her halo sink under the dripping of her tears, pouring out into the lethal riptides that tear apart the ships of her tormentors.
It is an ill-fated visual, a heartbreaking sound that aches my heart and mind.
A mere angelic tragedy that branches from her poor misfortuned angel endeavors.
(2023, Nov 13)
“walking irony”
The revelations dawn on me,
walking with the swift feet that peddle across the crosswalk, passing by unrelentingly determined as I reluctantly drag my feet across.
In a sea of opportunity, I chose a boat that would sink toward its depths, bringing me closer to the undersea volcanos that burn despite their situational irony;
a synonym for my existence in this vast world of possibility.
I should be grateful, resilient, and committed,
reminding myself that we all exist above thousands of meters of earthen layers.
Yet, over it all, I cannot help but think that this zebra-crossing means more than just a pedestrian allocation — something of a marathon line, something I find myself straying further and further away from.
Maybe it simply is not meant to be mine,
maybe I really am a walking irony.
(2023, Nov 15)
