I live this strange little
existence--I don't even know
what it's supposed to be.
Strangled, laden with
shattered stuff:
fragments of a heart once beating
and pumping tangy blood.

I breathe this so-called air of life
that kills me with each
proverbial toke--
when I would have wanted the
glamour of cigarette smoke.

I roam the cruel streets
that scream of my
generation's apathy.
And bleed with red and sunny-yellow
and acetylene-white.
Words, their wisdom
long lost.

I love this wisp
of a being ready
to be snapped in two.
He's the one who
means so much;
enough that I just have to
go on.

This work is copyright 1997 The Philippine Star and Shirley Siaton-Parabia.
Please do not take, repost or distribute in any form without express written permission.