From the perspective,
of a cup of tea, we are all giants
busying ourselves with existence
while they wait to fill
our insides with warmth
joy and satisfaction.

They wonder
why we pretend, for so long
to be interested in other thing.
. . . apart from them.

From the perspective
of the cup of tea. We all
are lying to ourselves.


Morning boulders

The waking smell of pending rain,
flavoured with coffee and the chatter of birds.
Listen to the soundtrack of thunder,
these tremors, I imagine,
gradually rumble me from my slumber.

Heavy arms, and steamed up blankets,
not even the morning tea can tempt me
from this orange comfort. My nose
tastes the cold world. Shudder. This is
my cue to retreat. [snuggle deeper]

I welcome the rumble that set me awake,
and the paced drumbeat of rain featuring
window. There is bliss found in the moment
I have left. Till my heart is reminded of the
boulder I am paid to roll up a hill.

Poised atop

And so
he rolls through his day. A
boulder, tumbling downhill,
bouncing over stumps, and crashing
through obstacles. His hands are tender
to the shake, rough in their grip, knuckles,
gritty to the punch, and arms steadfast
in their strength. He shouts, stood on the hill, and calls
the river up the incline. The eagle soars above his head
and the reptiles slither around his feet. Thunders applauds
him in their clap as he calms the storm and dances
the wind. He calms them to the sun set. He calms
them till they succumb to its dim glow. Till
the night overpowers them. Him.
Slumber encroaches.
Silence cuddle him.
Loneliness strokes his
thick haired head.

Not even the eagle, or reptile,
or thunder, or applause, or sunset
can protect him from his
night company.

He fears drowning.
Worst off, in his own tears.


I am drowned by that
flimsy optimism
that quickens taste, fills
heels with agile springs, erupts
visions of light in my belly,
and makes bright, my
cold quiet night
with dancing
as my living


I love it.

It was her music

It was
with shut eyes,
body rocking, head
tranced, and heart engrossed
in the splendid.

It was
the serenade;
breath oscillating. finding the peace
of ocean depths, blinks steadied,
heart, strummed to peace.

It was
the sound of her voice,
her strings she sent to dance,
the feathers she kept afloat.

It was her music


Sad poems.
They flow from the cracks
grown from strong trees,
falling axes, unbalanced steps,
angry words, and the cold
whispers [which were] never

poems, flow
easier than the singing
bird, bright skies, or the round
beauty found in the [perfect] spin of
a doughnut. They are
the catharsis our
fractured souls
call for.

Happy memories need
no catharsis.

For that


Thank you
for your smile. It has,
my day, turned to a stream
of flowing rose petals, sparkling
waters, waterfall of nectar, and
the scent of new rainfall.
My heart, in now, has
found a smile.
Its smile.

Thank you.


We are running
to nowhere, and we
are unafraid.

We are devoid
of expectation, and are 

Ice cream, lazy steps, deep breaths
and sunshine; the recipe
for lesscare.


He walked with a tremble.
Not the kind that causes his
limbs to reverberate like
the quaking of drills
or the tumbling of rocks.
Not that.
His tremble was different.
It flowed though streams,
meandering with subtlety
through the heart of all
who saw him.
All who watched him.
All who gave him their finite attention; a trade.
He replenished with his tremble.
His terrifying tremble.
And by that,
the world was drowned in empathy.
Empathy, that trembled.