A Special Collection of Poetries

Death Becomes You

Absolute Slums

By Judy-Ann Camille C. Vizcara

In the deepest and cruelest corner, Where the shadows lurk over, Savages and feebles come together, Enduring their seething hunger.

Forging spoils and crumbs in secrecy, Away from the sight of those greedy, Bits from bones and rotten veggie, Rations from the leftovers of the wealthy.

We once dreamed like fine royalty, Eating grains of rice and a whole turkey, Indulging ourselves with scrumptious delicacy, Soothing the anger of our growling belly.

Our dreams may be dim and eccentric, Where hopes and wonders are at their peak, Tricking our skin and bones away from hunger, To lessen the anguish of the unjust and suffer.

For sure, one day in this cold and disheveled place, Where no one weeps or cares for our sake, Death will retrieve our poor and warm souls, Alas, we will never starve once more.

By Daisylyn B. Contada

We only have one life to live, Amidst the brokenness, we can choose to forgive. We can live in misery, yet still be kind, In a world full of chaos and constant grind.

That is how we die multiple times, the desperation for yearning so much for love, the desperation for craving intense validation, eats us up and leaves us to die over and over again.

Death becomes a natural talk, where it celebrates walking on earth accompanying you with the grief it bestows, the grief that no one knows.

Death becomes a friend, who you can share all your traumas, traumas that everyone gave without you knowing Death becomes you, You become nobody.

We search for solace in the darkest of places, Hoping to find a way out of life's mazes. But the road ahead seems never-ending, And our brokenness, remains forever mending.

Meadow Melodies

By Nikko Bryll T. Mablay

Walking in the grassy meadows at midday, The majestic snow capped mountains are in sight. The cold breeze against the warmth of the sunlight. The blooming wildflowers with the butterflies.

A wicker basket full of delicious treats, two wine glasses for the bittersweet red wine, An old radio playing a sweet melody. Midday picnic beside the weeping willow.

The letter and rose I received weeks ago. The once red rose, was now dried and shriveled. To the distance I looked but I never saw, Not even a single shadow in sight.

Still I kept on waiting for your arrival, Until the skies were orange, purple, and red. Then the clouds rolled by and a strong wind blew in, Blowing your letter far away from me.

Trailing the letter, a raindrop on my cheek, Lifting my face, I saw the sorrowful skies. Dark clouds reigned over the meadow and mountains, The melancholic tune to the sound of rain.

Beneath the weeping willow,I took cover, The melancholic tune of the old radio. Tears fell as I picked the rose from the puddle, the drenched and shriveled rose as its petals fell.