Laila Iluminação
Crimson red, aqua blue, purple haze, or grayest hues, what shade do you embrace when no one sees you?
And I awoke in the morning to find-- in one pocket, a paling rose, and in the other, a lightening bolt. What to do when polar both-- one withering song, one stanch revolt?
Sometimes I whispered weightless words. To some, what I uttered was but a blur. To others, the strangest sound ever heard. And for those who listened, did you understand love?
When the sun sleeps, the eye of the night is open. The sky has to be broken for us to behold heaven. We are fragile when we sleep. We are open like the night. My galaxies run deep, my thoughts bleed through sleeves onto fingertips. Traveler, there is only so much you can see in one sitting. There is only so much I can entreat.
These eyelashes slowly close in dozing moments alone, and some hopes do grow in places undisclosed. Clock ticking above my head, wind howling at the sill, dreams escaping softest bed, while thoughts lie fragrant still. Perhaps God gave us memories so that even in December, we could recall the scent of flowers when trees are skeletons but the mind is an ember.
I once heard that healing is embracing what is most feared, opening what has been closed, and softening what has hardened. But certainly, it starts with faith in God. But I will not reveal my fears as you are treacherous. And some doors will never be opened again. And truly, could this softening feel like taking an already ripened word, and leading it to ruins by setting it in the sun longer than it should? Healing may be to realize and treasure who you are and wish no evil upon others. So why not let the heart feel what is true, and dream for me what I dream for you? If I protest this is the last smile in my possession, would you hold it preciously and help protect its rare existence?
The other night, I rested on a bed of jasmine and vanilla- It is the scent of sweetness from those who knew love best. I once saw small flowers reach out through the pavement. I once heard a heartbeat amongst deadest places. Behind broken mirrors I have seen lovely faces. I smile when I remember – running to get M&Ms when I was ten, hugging my sisters again, the time we sang in the car so loud that no one could figure any of the words out, being ignorant and being aware, watching shadows walking in the warmest air— staring into nothingness, and the glare of sunlight after hiding contritely here. And then there's nights of wailing calls heard against the holy wall, and times the moon and the sun collide, igniting just the brightest light.
Could it be a delusional amnesia for the insane? How we walk with snowflakes on our face? My eyes were closed today, but my walk was straight. I am not bitter I swear, just sweet and sour from synthetic despairs. How we have always loved gentleness—but somewhere in the middle— did we become just monstrous? I grit my teeth in my sleep, wipe a tear relentlessly. I feel the hope and feel the fears--where go all the countless years? When I forget, I am at peace. When I regress-I aggravate me. There is a pain, and there is release. There is graciousness but have you forsaken me? Please God--- where have we taken this?
Wait. Convene. These scenes don’t become you. So recreate and sustain. Would you like to know my refrains? Black is beautiful, indigo is spiritual, pink is plausible, and smudged eyeliner is never exhaustible. I have enough to fill every eye in this room. Would you like to see what I can do? Don’t judge me so quick-- give me a chance to sink in. I’ve changed, morphed from within. What is that you hear? Just ignore the one who is screaming on the side. I call her
Are you still with me? Do you see a picture clear or have I blistered what you held so dear? Do you hear what I hear? There is no such thing as silence. There is white noise and blue streaks with unforeseen sparks in between. And then there is this—a tiny star—flickering far away, beholding all from the great black sky-- I see you disclosing and withholding from my window at night. And I can’t help but wonder what you see, when you look back at me. Am I sunset or sunrise...?
Still the mind is an ember, so do recall-- snowflakes on faces… long winding staircases...and applause from the mezzanine when in jewels we are laced. You can not erase-- the sight of miniscule lights as we rose above and beyond in freedom flights. Can you somehow relate to this? The ground shaking as we landed in turbulence…my face peering over shoulders, dimpled smile, and a pence to buy me a bag of prose, when my aesthetic sense is morosely overwhelming. It is the scent of a Kashmir rose, to be held tenderly in children’s arms, the wonder of my mother’s coat, hair soaked from the pacific shore, then redemption swift with a southern charm, avant garde with eyes aglow, in my grip the lightening bolt ---- and a vision of you and me… in a galaxy of our thoughts…