Who holds our hands

For who holds our hands
When we fade beneath the light
In the space congested
By smoke lit rooms.

In the ocean
Drowning in the deep.

And in the valley of tears
That tears the walls
We thought to hold us on.

When uncernaty looms
As if walking
On a fragile thread.

And life is consumed
Restricted by
The fumes

Left in the haze
Lost amidst
Remainders of debris.

For who holds our hands
When we fade beneath the light
In the space congested
By what’s left behind.

Self destructive obedience

It only take seconds to self destruct,
A mindless thrust, and thus,
Exploding into disintegrating bits of debris,

It takes forever to build,
To breath in Hope,
To believe
To trust.

For obedience is not an inner trait,
Slaves to a bent road,
Our souls deformed in embracing
Just “me.”

Virtue does not grow wings,
To those breathing,
But the constant journey of,
Obedience in the same direction.

A habitual undertaking of slow pants in walking,
Progress is not something instant,
A painter learns by instilling,
In her thoughts
quiet reflections.

moments from happenings,
Imaginations from reality,
In daily interpretation,
Of Living,
Of Dying.

The straight and narrow,
Roads where few would choose,
To hear freedom…
Our devotion curbed to a life that reeks the smell of

scarlet red

it was
the leaving of
the scarlet red
that marked
the end
for blossoming flowers
which congested
what morning dews
that introduced
a journey
to the crossroad
but before it begun
i had to bury
but i think
i didn’t really dig
deep enough
for the coffins
to sink
and sometimes
the ghost of the past
comes out
to haunt
but i’ve somehow
learned to move on
even at the pace
where even snails
outran me
but at least
i can still kiss
the ripping out of the heart
spells bliss
for the moment
when they birth in me
worlds that i never thought existed
or stuff i never thought mattered
but who knew
not me
that life could begin again
even after
everything i gave for
broken and shattered

and to the wind
i give a toast
to kiss the dark brewing
of a ghost
i place my trust
in the divine
in whom i’ve learned
to invite and dine
and to the leaving
of the sweet scarlet red
which i held
and i bled
sometimes to live again
life needs to embrace death.



this traveler within me
makes for navigation
an amusing feat,

losing sight of destination,
there’s nothing new to that,
getting right back on track,
will take an amazing few steps back.

in frustration i let out a sigh,
my heart running wild as it pumps blood through my veins,
i’m done with this obsession of racing for a high,
it only reeks my emotions low when i’m met with only pain.

in this journey,
i drink from both rivers,
one that quenches my thirst in hope,
another that forces wells of sorrow,
but for this need to live,
we have to learn to cope.

On the Train with a Book and a Conversation


I rode the train today
And in that instance you’ll know
I don’t make a lot of money
But enough for one to sow
I took out my book
On the cover spelt something something “God”
On the subject of theology
And heretical orthodoxy
I hear some people say
Ah, whatever
As long as it’s something to read
On the journey to my destination
I have my mind to feed
I know it’s nothing to rid me of anguish
So I’ll fill my mind with good musings
And not magazine rubbish
So I sat and I read
And minded my own business
Until someone asked me what’s on the cover
So I showed him
“how (not) to speak about God” by Peter Rollins
He asked “are you a Christian?”
I answered “yes” with some hesitation
“I’m sorry,” I whispered a prayer
For my cowardly reservation
Of course this was not my intention
For my cowardly faith allegiance
Cause this is Malaysia
I want to respect other religions
So I listened to that guy
He went on rambling
Talking about a place
Where miracles and healing took precedence
I think there was a Muslim
Sitting in between
Hearing this man talking
About other who shared his faith
Turning from Islam to Christian
Here in Malaysia it something forbidden
It’s a law they put up with historical leanings
This guy drew me a map Of where they worshiped
On my book by Peter Rollins
He scribbled with a pencil
And soon I arrived at my destination
And with me I had a conversation
Reading about God
In a train with my pain
Still needing some form of healing.