Source: Google Images. Photo is not mine.
For those who easily judge the depth of the river by sight, and who struggle coping with the river currents.
This is my fifth jeepney tale.
a plane without a pilot
always stirring towards jeopardy,
and circling the sky without control
but with direction.
a puppet without a master,
speaking against its own will
and dances despite its utmost reluctance,
but presents itself intelligibly.
an eternal poem without an author,
extending infinitely with words
blending with such violence,
but later proves to be a
masterpiece in an unending progress.
perhaps who they call “lost”
or the one who is momentarily
who they describe to be in a
or in a
“period of exploring”.
But beyond the scope of their thinking,
the name-calling, and the
I rest with the fact that
I am someone
who is driven
by a melancholic absence.