Fear

This post resurrects my lost love for poetry.  Poems bring to life that hidden voice in our psyche on thoughts, both real and abstract.

Last week, I received a special gift from Lau, a friend and colleague. It was a book of poems Things Happen, written (and signed) by his father Cirilo F. Bautista, the National Artist for Literature.  I thank Lau not only for the book, but also for reawakening the lost poet within.

And while I can only dream of having my own anthology published, I meanwhile bask in this little world for a few seconds of fleeting attention.

Starting with this poem I wrote in the late 90s. 

Fear

I smelled fear.

Yours.

Veiled contempt

cloaked in blank stares

and aggression.

But then,

I see what is real.

And I saw your fear.

I smelled fear.

Floating adrift

with the stale air.

Trying

to cut through me.

But instead it cut you.

I smelled fear.

Crouching in your darkness.

Fleeing.

But then,

you cannot hide from me.

I will find you.