wounds for harvest.

words inspired from events transpired.
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Even a parasol would suffice,
whereas I -
having neither shelter
nor shield
but a second skin
of fabric that clothes my own
and bony fingers
that only sieve out the leaves -
run helpless in the rain.

the more we suffer the bigger we expect our reward to be, and that brings us more suffering.

a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest.
his heart he offered on silver platter.
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

the armour he wore she put to test,
like porcelain the shell but feeble cover,
a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest.

how he had intended the best,
crushed and crumpled poetic letter,
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

he loved her smiles and her dress,
she was a girl unlike the other.
a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest.

hoping and pining for some progress,
anything at all he would so barter,
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

deadpan face and soul depressed,
drag of feet as six feet under,
a trident, a pitchfork, to the chest,
a twist, a stab, she will not let rest.

We’ve all built ships, and at the moment of christening hoped that they would last for as long as we could commandeer it. We would be adventurous; the more we cruised the more we would feel invincible. Chartered waters soon fail to quench our thirst; the smell of familiar air too stale for our palates. We know these waters like the back of our hand; we throw our maps like caution to the wind.

As though we needed them.

We would be so sure where the ship will take us: a mystery of adventure. We could picture it, frame it, even make a diorama of it. But the waters get too rough; the air a stab to the lungs with every breath. We could not stay as we are; raising anchors we sail away.

It’s not the miles of ocean
nor the expanse of sky,
neither is it these
tangled telephone lines.

It’s the space between
your heart

and mine.

you’re a mind invader
every time I close my eyes.
a thought provoking entity,
a seamstress spinning lies.

You weave by the spindles,
all the cons you had me on.
You can call me gullible,
it’s faith for the forlorn.

You’re a witch of crafts,
casting vicious spells,
of severed aortas and arteries,
stealing any heart that sells.

The best intentions are,
the worst wasted on you.
Your penny cheap smiles,
bartered for the gold of fools.

they say they’re just fruits,
banana and peach.
yet amidst the greens,
without dressing, 
find them tossing, 
as salad under wraps.

What a surprise
to see you again
I am so sorry
to grimace in pain
You showed up 
out of the blue
and entered
without my cue

It is cold;
you twist and turn
to find a place
where fires burn
but dearest blade
stay your anger
my heart is just a little late 
in rolling out the red carpet

familiar face.
what a coincidence!
of time and place.
how are you?
uh huh uh huh that’s cool.
what are you doing?
ya ya ya, so true.
where are you going?
ah, I’ve heard it too.

oh yes, oh yes.
it would be good
absolutely terrific
insanely wonderful
majestically splendid
to catch up over food

I’ll call
or text
or something,
we’ll see.
we’ll meet,
with the rest
we’ve not seen.
when we cross
our paths
you’ll see.

you’ll see,

when the waters came
over everything
did you run
or did you swim?

did angels come
as mermaids or dolphins
in oceanic guise
to save your skin?

did sirens sing
from the bluest deep
and did you listen
did you heed?

did you go back
to look for me
when all was dark
could you still see?

are you sleeping
with the fishes
do you love them
more than me?

they are limp
like fish
I turned them over
faces of shock and horror

you vanished
from the living
you are missing
from the dead.

every Spring
I walk along the shore
and when the waters come
and when the waters go
I hope they bring
you back to me.