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She hears the sea breeze
Thousand miles on 43rd
High rise of not-tides flash
But blue over mirror glass

Up above, almost near
The makeshift waves
She looks far into the haze
By the heavens, the grays

Her eyes give in the mirage
As if the underworld reaps
Souls from the automatons
Day after day the bygones

Her small square, of sticky crafts and a screen
For eight hours, even more. She triumphs Persephone.

* * *

Bottle of Sins

The it screams anguish. Preaching
the words dense, which never is to be:

Refusing; a hesitation of the Fall
Confusing from one’s understanding

The IT shies away. Behind bushes
and mango trees and springy kitchen doors.

Mind raked of blots of words of sensibilities
return losing one’s own psyche in sound

The IT stays away. Into those confines
of the hearth, lover, the room

Cork screws are of man’s befitting
To know one’s wings IT blinded a long

The IT repents. Runs and refuses
A chokehold still; a plague struggling returning

About the poet: Miguel Carlos Lazarte, 20, writes as the culture editor of the UPLB Perspective. He is currently finishing his undergraduate degree on BS Development Communication in the University of the Philippines Los Baños.



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