poems by Cynthia Balea




Thrown away

Thrown away in a mold of unattainable aspirations

And left there

Rotting –

Decomposing gruesomely as nonfulfillment putrefies my brain

And I am

Choking on piles of dirt penetrating my asthmatic lungs,

Leaving me breathless.


Earthworms are dwelling under my decaying flesh now,

Feeding themselves with the last bits of glimmering hope

Coating my disintegrated organs.

Blood vessels once pumping with sanguinity and

Desires that were yet to come into existence

Are coagulated – darkened vermilion as thick as their lusty hands

Tearing my ideals apart, excoriating my creed

And clouding my vision.


Goodness, what have they not done?

Shoveled my grave and ripped me into fragments

On which they spit their foul curse astray

To feed my relics to the underworld


Feed its decadence to me – yet they know mercy.


There is no possibility of ascension

Once the intellect is rooted in barren soil,

The sockets are mudded with prohibition,

The limbs lethargic,

Although the core is throbbing

And throbbing

And throbbing frantically

On their plate

Until they thrust their knives in it,

Amazed by its vivacity,

Wondering how come it stayed preserved this long,

But find no answer, for the primordial haste is looming

And upon tasting incorporeal emotion,

The ALTERity is blooming.




You left me foaming


My love for you, a bottomless ocean

Of ethereal hopes sunk beneath the blue,

A valse sentimentale in slow motion

Of Turritopsis Dohrnii, cerulean of hue.


I watched you swinging from a tide,

With gracious wings you touched the firmament.

I vulnerably witnessed how waves collide,

A pelagic bird in perpetual movement.


Across the seas of time you fled,

Gliding through the welkin,

A celestial entity to embed

The mimesis of a human being.


I dived not knowing how to float

And drowned in shades of azure…

I am still aching for a lifeboat

To stream me to my eternal treasure.




A children’s play


I wish I could have stayed more,

Wrapped you in my embrace for as long as you needed

To be assembled back.

In a similar manner I used to repeatedly stick together

The pieces of the puzzle I adored

In my infancy,

Yet I was the one who disassembled it

Just as eagerly,

For I had to exercise my handiness,

Spare me of my loneliness

Or just get a temporary feeling of completion

Without even fulfilling my ambition…


I wish I could have tamed patience,

Make it my loyal companion

To aid me in the quickest of times

Of which I was not even aware

Nor prepared,

When my childhood was measured in fragments repaired.

I reached for patience slowly,

But it fled away from me…

And so did years summed up to fitting pieces

Of a puzzle I was not even fond of any longer,

A puzzle I already learnt by heart,

A puzzle that was tearing me apart.


I repeated this cycle so often that, one day,

I ran out of time,

Parts of the puzzle were still disassembled

And so were you, scattered in hundreds of remnants,

Awaiting my return and

Hoping you would be hole again.

But I grew out of my ambition to reconstruct

A mosaic so predisposed to reversibility,

A mosaic that enticed me


Or I grew tired of it, eventually.


What could be so intricate

When it comes to a puzzle for ages 7-9?

The value of time –

I wish I could have stayed more

So I would assemble you one last time,

But it passed me by…


You were to be made

Endlessly –

A living mystery,

An everlasting tedium to me.




Delusive illustriousness


Farewell, my better half, yet my antagonist!

Why did you have to vanish so quickly and become one with the mist?

A fog so suffocating, ubiquitously spread,

That has been crumbling graveyard statues, awakening the dead.

If only my long-forgotten hopes revived anew…

I seldom wonder how it is like to be among the few

Who depart themselves from the rest

With a slight pain in their chest,

Looking forward to building their very own nest

Out of shattered marble, ashes and self-interest.

Posing this question to myself, I keep hesitating,

Frustratingly clenching my fists, although pretending

That the choice I have made out of necessity will reduce the pain

Of delving delusively into aspirations I cannot attain.

Should I still wander in search of dismantled almosts

Or sail optimistically towards another coast?

A decade has passed in the blink of an eye

And the prophecy of my destiny proved to be complete fabrication,

Even if I am aware that this feeling of deprivation

Is far from being involuntary, for what I have lacked throughout my entire existence

Was persistence –

An inability to voice my desolation

And I shall be eternally sentenced to damnation.






I am walking the corridors of my own mind

And they are decorated with frameless portraits

I cautiously hanged a long time now.

I absent-mindedly became a collector of fragile figures

Who secluded themselves behind thick glass

Like expressionless porcelain puppets,

Decorative pieces to enhance the beauty of one’s “living” room,

Yet there was nothing lively about them, nothing vivid

Whilst being cloistered in vitrine.

I wanted them to show emotion

So I shattered the glass

And upon desecrating their altars of placidity

They molded into shapes of despair

Fuming with anger as their opacity was fading away.

I made myself a gallery of evocative portraits

Without confining them in frames and glass

For their histrionic displays of temper were so veridical

That they deserved pellucid exposure.

As a collector, when being purposely asked by an individual

What the way I see him is, I smirk,

Guiding him to my three-dimensional exhibition

And whispering “You will find your honest portrayal here.”


poems by Cynthia Balea

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