At Last - Deborah Wong

Paper cut on a middle finger,
Licks it like hurricane Venus,
If this picture is so perfect,
then why did you say farewell?
Am I not the sole survivor?
Linger in between the throwing dices
Afraid that we may not pull over
the fa├žade that mesmerises strumming
pain. Staring ahead for the tunnel
Filled with tomorrow at the end of
the line. Give me what’s meant to be
necessary, instead of fulfilling every
wish I’ve ever desired. Closing the
nearest oasis from supplying the pool
of my lasting pleasure.

I feel the ocean of embrace cascading
from one, that; whom hasn’t shown
along the skittish run. Deciphering each
breath you’re committing. I call no heaven
on earth when you’re creating hell – broke
loose – throwing me into stormy weather.
But I’m not made of cookie bricks. Wouldn’t
I stand before you not understanding who and
What I was motivated for. It’s hard to forgive,
Hence I wipe my tears, cultivating positivism –

at last.

- - -

Deborah Wong lives in Kuala Lumpur. Her poems have recently appeared in Eastlit, Vox Poetica and Banana Writers, and forthcoming by The Tower Journal. She often tweets at @PetiteDeborah.