Brushing Death’s Door

I brush my fingers along the metal bar. It says “Press here to Enter,” but still I wait and ponder. I can feel his presence in my fingertips, it does not bring a feeling of sadness or fear. Nor will I pen some overly used quip about a lost lover. Instead I feel a vibration from the door that comes from the steady crooning of a very real voice. A voice that rages, that offers sweet rewards, that consoles after death, and one that offers an opportunity for escape. How permanent that escape feels as my hands finally press the entrance open to the crypt.

The building is warm and inviting. Windows have been placed on the East side and the sun seems placed to greet the dead each day. I turn towards the coffin wall and my eyes attempt to widen and engulf the magnitude of death before me. My Korean eyes strain to open further… but to no avail. I see a few of my ancestors in the corner. Their misty forms seem to shake as they laugh hysterically at my attempts. At least they managed to keep their humor in death, I think to myself as I roll my eyes.

I walk towards a name, five from the top and three over. I place my hand upon the placard, it gleams bright. Brand new, I can still see the glue where the price tag was stuck. I rub at it furiously, its presence suddenly offends me. I step away once satisfied that all is as it should be… as it must be. There are no flowers here, only stone and metal. This actually makes me happy. There is nothing here that will die again.

He need not return once more.

-Opinionated Man


The Final Embrace

There is a picture making its way around the blog world of the Bangladesh tragedy and in the photo is a man embracing a woman as they die. He is half hugging and half shielding her from the debris which can be seen to have crushed them to death. Someone titled it “The Final Embrace” and it seems fitting. I have seen it two days in a row now and this second time I won’t just pass by it.

A sudden shaking, but we are in a building, and yet the whole structure is rocking back and forth. This cannot be possible and yet it is a reality of the moment, and in a moment decisions of a lifetime are made.

I search desperately, where is she? My knees are shaking from the sudden chaos that has erupted around me. I hear screams, too many screams, some are yelling for help. It tears my heart to not stop, to not give aid, but I must find her first. She is all that matters. Smoke fills the room, lights are flickering, and I can’t seem to find my direction even though I have worked in this building countless times. The smell of burning cloth assaults my sense of smell and I cough. As I choke on a cloud of smoke the room briefly clears as if by a miracle. And then I see her…

She is pinned to the ground by a concrete pillar and she is desperately pushing at it as if she can move it herself. I burst into a run and yell her name as I fall down beside her.

It won’t move,” she says faintly.

Hold on, just hold on,” I mutter as I begin to try and lift. I yell desperately for help, but all that I hear are similar calls.

Go, go…” she says as she tries to push me away.

Above the building shakes a second time and I hear a loud cracking sound all around me. I quickly embrace her.

Please go…” she says one more time.

When the sun dies,” I say back as the world dies around us.




His wings are clipped. They hold no air.
Swaying like a strand of hair.

A sad image, mixed with color and tears.
The artist weeps but also fears.

That the image might begin to fade.
To it we become a slave.

He is fallen but he does not fall. To falter in step expected, remain tall.

And as he searches desperately for that which is lost. He burns the earth with his tears. He does not realize that what he seeks is no longer obtainable. Sadly does he flutter to land but not to be a god among men. He has no pride for that. Instead he accepts what fate has written.

And as a sun dies, a star is born.
To outshine that which was lost.
And as a son is born, a father dies.
To free up light for those to come.


The Rain

I hear it coming in the form of thunder. The coming clouds tell me the rain approaches. It comes to Florida in the sound of skittles hitting the pavement and the falling of a child. It scatters across America as injustice’s banner is waved above our own. The rain pours like the pelting of protest as our military men are offered jobs at Wal-Mart as compensation for their service. It glares as the corporate lawn next to mine gets to water daily, but I am forced onto a 2 day water restriction. It will breed hot with rage when the lower 3 quarters gets tired of being told how to live by the lesser amount. The rain will come.


Misplaced Smiles

Misplaced Smiles awarded to undeserving faces.

Gather them like leaves and set them afire.

I have spread them across all the races.

The promise of future pyres.

Friendships are made in promise, not gold.

Their fortitude is thus suspect to question.

I wonder if the Misplaced Smiles were sold.

And thus we learn another lesson.


Frozen Pane

I stare through a frozen pane. The intricate trails of ice create cascading colors that glance into my eye. I barely notice. The sense of frozen time draws me and stills my heart for a second. A second of thought to contemplate a lifetime. That is what takes place today as I stare through this frozen window. Winter’s coming breath is deflected by structures created by man. We build up the walls high to keep away the cold, the unknown, and sometimes the known. But still, even after that wall is built, we catch ourselves staring in wonder. Perhaps in longing? We watch the world through a frozen pane and still wish to belong.