(mid 16th century: from Latin, ‘wreath, crown’)

This world will descend with us all wearing crowns,
our fear made of chain mail, ensuring we drown –
this royal, rich cluster-fuck the claws of a hound
pandemically torn; endemically bound.

One planet, one people, an abstracted art –
our hope stripped in layers while the illest depart.
Socialised distance the end where we start:
with sanitised hands we are bonded apart.

And yet, it is loneliness more than disease
that will whisper goodbye as we land on our knees,
extinction unmasking the death it will seize
as we slip well away with perpetual ease.

But we cannot forget how to smile in defiance;
we must find a cure and resume an alliance.
Our infinite strength is historically timeless:
let us fearlessly roar in the face of this virus!

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 21 March 2020


It is here
in this bottle-necked existence, locked
into days captioned by ticks and tocks
where time resides in each of us
until it stops,
rotating the same hands
inside the same third dimensional clock.

It is here
where every breath exhaled is a universal kiss –
it is simply one moment and
the space in between this
that binds together our journeys, which,
as uniquely defined as we feel each is,
are all chapters of the same book
we write to reminisce,
primed and painted with the same theme we
create to self-exist,
scrawled by the same pencil, held
by the same hands as we persist . . .
each of us artists
with the same precise and leather-bound twist.

It is here
where we long for real purpose or true faith –
to believe that something
‘other’/ external / majestic
awaits . . .
but in nothing we trust
yet, cry blame for our fate –
each a different monologue of the same hate;
the same distracting soul state;
the same periodic and prolific bait.
God would not want us, at any rate

It is here
in darkness, arms around each other’s back
that war hangs overhead in stasis,
circling, cycling on a track and
wearing thin our patience
while it leaks like yolk from all our cracks
(we watch it drip indifferently as we huddle tight within our pack)
for the next surprise attack:
we, like wolves, insane
and seeing red with every flash –
our lonely pain inciting hunger,
our deep abyss as black.

It is here
in this cosmic explosion
and it is now just as it was then,
that peace is nought but a tragic parody
of the dreams of passing men –
and nothing changes but the theatre of stars
in lines, in queues, end to end,
enemy to friend to
for decades once again,
consuming pain like greed as our bellies, full, distend,
living every angle of the lie like it is money we MUST spend,
the broken tales of each of us
portending, true, our end;
dangling one more burden
like a dog-tag for a past we’ve penned,
at rest beneath a headstone
in a yard of human bookends.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 14 April, 2017



this moment will
without you
slip away from me

as I feared, alone
in a raft made for two

oars afloat
beyond my cramping fingers

and nothing but my shadow-self
will be revived

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 13 June, 2016


Here, the last moment,
time stealing that now as well . . .
no tock to the tick.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 13 June, 2016


My Passing

Come lay with me
so that I
with any luck at all
pass into the night
– yours, being the last face
I shall ever desire to see.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 13 March, 2014