No color can contain

[The life, that has been generated inside the poetry above, is only a rhetorical piece of a much bigger puzzle. Yes, it is a puzzle, just as life is, the canvas, we use to connect every puzzle-piece, to its own designated colors, befitting an image we can embrace as our own, as colorful as we can make them. As far as the message, I wanted to convey, is not entirely my own, but I am only speaking on behalf of the hole that used to exist inside my heart, and writing this poem is simply my way, of filling that hole with a new seed.]

Hello everyone, my name is Wilbert Dela Cruz, and I would like to introduce myself as a silent dreamer. Silent because, I believe, the loudest voice can sometime, only be projected from the words, spoken in silence. Because, I also believe, the best gift in everyone’s life, can only be received, inside the uncovering of the things we cannot see, like how love is, and most especially, how love can change the rhythm of the human heart.

Time was never meant, to stand still on behalf of the heart, of a broken-hearted.

Only fluctuates, like a tornado, drawing out its tears, at every eye of the storm.

Where each hand, points one to the other, circling back, turning, the other way.

For even a minute, deemed too soon, it is the same amount, to one single second-half a second too late,

Once again, it fluctuates, like a heart beating, intuiting the sound of the drum, quaking…

As the world dances, seeking for a renewing, brick by brick, dusts will fall, from the ruins.

For the dream of a dreamer, waits for no one, only creates whatever; true or not.

Mostly, not, is the more endearing course, just to break the rhythm, for better or worst.

There is no stoplight looming, either, at a corner, where green means, go, orange; you wait.

Where falling in love, is only a metaphor to seeing; tattered tears, plummeting, to drown out the floor.

Nevertheless, time can provide us with a cure on wheels, when time flies, time also heals.

By: Wilbert Dela Cruz