Sunday, February 24, 2008


She flits around, fickle and quick
Like bees among flowers, like butterflies;
Hopping from petal, from each she picks
The sweetest of honey from open minds.

I saw a flower touched by her hand
bear the ripest of fruits from its bud,
Who would have though such sweet a fruit
could grow with me from equal mud?

Her magic touch that flits about,
that makes the writer jump with joy;
that makes depression sit and pout,
that sends the artist into endless toil.

Someday she'll see me, my outstretched door
Open to her to rest her touch;
And strike me then with blessings much
Just like the flower that I saw.

I contend with the wind now, slow it may
To make the fruits of ideas past,
Until she comes, that final day
For me to have my song at last.


Dedicated to Johnny and his awesome story.
Thanks to people like him, Singapore's literature has a hope.

Keep going Johnny ^^

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