Ann Lorraine Lames

Edition XVII

Empty Spaces - by Ann Lorraine Lames (Photo by Ajmal Cholakkal)Photo credit: Ajmal Cholakkal

Empty Spaces

By Ann Lorraine Lames

Empty Spaces, 
fill in the gaps 
but are the gaps worth filling, 
when spaces could be the best there is?

Empty Spaces, 
must we fill the void? 
when the spaces are meant
to breathe life to an otherwise teeming lot?

Empty Spaces, 
must I come here?
when it was deliberately left empty,
desolate, deserted. 

Empty Spaces
should I step out,
and never risk 
to step inside again?


Edition XVIII

Demise - by Ann Lorraine Lames (Photo by Sacha Mourad)Photo credit: Sacha Mourad

Demise

By Ann Lorraine Lames

Farewell sweet doll
no longer would there be a need
for your love and charm

‘till you find your place
in a world that knows no hate, 
sadness or fear

may you find solace
in a place you can call your own.

To you I bid adieu — 
   to a dying, listless you.


Edition XIX

Empty Eyes - by Ann Lorraine Lames (photo by Pujohn Das)Photo credit: Pujohn Das

Empty Eyes

By Ann Lorraine Lames

I see hundreds of empty eyes,
staring blankly in space.

Some eyes that seem to want 
to utter a few lines;
some eyes that dare not 
speak a word.

And then there are those eyes
that seem to reveal,
unspoken sadness and grief;

and somewhere along the way, 
eyes filled with anger or remorse,
things I really couldn’t tell.  

In transit, I come to ask,
what my eyes 
could have been meaning to say?

For as eyes are the windows to the soul,
can it perfectly reflect what’s in your heart?
more so, does it really want to reveal to others
everything they needed to know?

these eyes of mine that can see right through you,
these eyes of mine that wonders what is it that perturbs you
are the same eyes that have seen through…

loved ones’ share of joys and pains
successes and failures,
happiness and heartaches

and sometimes wishes it can do something 
for those empty eyes of yours too.


Edition XX

Still - by Ann Lorraine Lames (Photo by Oscar Keys)Photo credit: Oscar Keys

Still

By Ann Lorraine Lames

When it’s too late, 
  the deafening silence begins.

When it’s too late,
  there’s no room for words,
    just an obscure passing of amends.

When it’s too late,
   no reprieve would do 
    to make up for lost, precious time.

When it’s too late,
  all that’s left is melancholic fondness,
    dabbling once more to the unknown.

If only to run away and turn my back 
    on insufferable distress, hurts, 
      and be well on my way to freedom, happiness — to me.


Return to the top