...

There was something so condescending about his soft words, his premature smile that I had to bow down to listen.

the beginning

Every time I think of the beginning, I note its loneliness, fragility and foreignness. I can never pass past the beginning, but find myself re-territorializing it in my imagination; though it is muddy, yet soft, below my feet. It is mine, but never mine to mould or emancipate; it merely reminds me of my beginning and predicts my ending. I walk with tension, hesitation and a false sense of passing.

a moving thought

This flickering feeling of vitality was an accident, a trope, a metaphor, a failure. The stirring of hope under the blazing sun moved my thoughts to and fro—-a hammock. But, it was the sight of a funeral procession like a bread crumb on top an ant that reminded me that I, too, will have graffiti drawn on my grave.

closing

the illusion of rebellion is fraught with reality, thoughts, memories of you and me.

what is it to be whole?

to don midnight with nothing on your sleeves
but riddles on your lips,
murmured with razor-rage
because pain is worthy of speech
but only in pure, sweet darkness
where there are no shadows

is a fragile beast
ready to climb down the silent shadows like vines
spread out against
all odds

this thought

it’s minor, but so alive, this thought:
a thread whistling against the sinking leaves
weaving a cloud for a bit of rain
this thought