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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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