By Shawn Marc B. Carreon
A pigment of black that shines
like day,
Leaving its crumbs, like specks
of dust.
Like a shadow that hangs
over the bay,
Leaving trails that develop like rust.
The nooks and crannies that shine under a rubble,
Like a person’s fate and its
fair troubles.
Radiant and gentle, up above
is a figure,
The hope that glows, the dark
as its manger.
“Aren’t you full?, I say to her majesty,
Like a fool with its beliefs, I begin
to wonder.
So close to the eye, yet it beckons like tragedy,
As I stare and walked, to a door
I wander.**
