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.
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.
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.
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.
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
He fears drowning.
Worst off, in his own tears.
I am drowned by that
that quickens taste, fills
heels with agile springs, erupts
visions of light in my belly,
and makes bright, my
cold quiet night
as my living
I love it.
with shut eyes,
body rocking, head
tranced, and heart engrossed
in the splendid.
breath oscillating. finding the peace
of ocean depths, blinks steadied,
heart, strummed to peace.
the sound of her voice,
her strings she sent to dance,
the feathers she kept afloat.
It was her music
They flow from the cracks
grown from strong trees,
falling axes, unbalanced steps,
angry words, and the cold
whispers [which were] never
easier than the singing
bird, bright skies, or the round
beauty found in the [perfect] spin of
a doughnut. They are
the catharsis our
Happy memories need
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.
guarded by the cold
We are running
to nowhere, and we
We are devoid
of expectation, and are
Ice cream, lazy steps, deep breaths
and sunshine; the recipe
He walked with a tremble.
Not the kind that causes his
limbs to reverberate like
the quaking of drills
or the tumbling of rocks.
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.