The Neighborhood Grass

I set out on a narrow way many years ago

Hoping I would find true love along the broken road


Here I firm stand, watching the neighbourhood grass

Seemingly ravishing and spoiling

What seems to never within the reach

Strike straight strong sense of self

Questioning the honour with full doubt

Of foggy unpromising the road taken

Here I blow prayer, the remaining stack of pride

For the neighbourhood grass is long believed greener

So, I’d rather tilted askew to the vision glittery

As the wiser told to love the mystery
To stop compare and full proud, 

Walk the road taken


That God blessed the broken road

That led me straight to you.

I could see how every sign, pointed straight to you

The Connection

Is there only one direction
Is there only right from wrong


​If the taken road will lead me to the very soul, I dare not to disobey the rendered flow

If the scattered pieces mean to be gathered and completed by the missing puzzle, I bear the long awaited

The world is too much of a diverse noise; thus the soul dreamed connection the companion of the same simplicity; in seeing, in believing, in encouraging what mere to others but the world to self: words

There is only one direction

There is only right from wrong

Got to make the right connection, 

on my own


Who knows how long I’ve loved you
Will I wait a lonely lifetime
For if I ever saw you
I will always feel the same

A long steady steps made by the passing seconds
The counting only made an even bigger a gap
As the feet kept on progressing forward
The accompaniment of harmonious waving night breeze,
for the first time I’d rather forbear
In complete silent, the perfect silent in its purest entirety,
so no jot of disturbance could distract from my fertile imagination
To leave me then with only in-syncly met friction,
crafting mentally rhythmical verses,
and endless bouncing wanderlust letters I’d rather to be with
As I choose to be,
in solitary, the time passing lessen mine longing
I can’t guarantee an eternal waiting,
but to nurture the flame and to not bend,
what the heart has tamed

“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove
Oh, no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken”
Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare

I will