The Stalker Moon and Broken Eggshells

Walking on a toppled over love,No matter how quiet and precise you tiptoe,You are gonna hear the immeasurable pain,That gained momentum by the booming moonlight . The moon is trying too hard, no?And he is kind of a stalker frankly.Wherever you go,There he is! I can relate to that. Walking on eggshells of some unfortunate…

Asylum 2

The dream they offered reeked of expensive cologne.And we were ashamed.And reminded.Of the fleshy musty smell.That we carry.Of our dismal homes.


The dream that they offered  reeked of heaven.A castle in the sky.It floated before the eyes.Rumors also floated.That, meanwhile, the sky is falling apart.“What floats can fall apart!”Some inmate yelled out before falling apart.Is the sky floating?But, we were told before that,By some beggars in shrewd costumes,“You don’t ask the right questions!”

Leopards and Ravens

This is a cold and lonely place.So when sun goes down in a forest,and the shadows all tell stories of wonder and awe,place your hand in the last ray.And breathe.Breathe with the leopard that fled a pointed gun.With the raven that survived a city burn.And outrun a fatal flaw. Pack light.The kingdom in your head,…

I've Heard There Was A Secret Chord

When the cold sinks in,deep into the hearts of the streets,she let out that butterfly ,that had been in hiding since birth. She floats above and beneath.An alien.In search of poignant romances.A kiss.Eyes that abandoned the world,just to have a memory build. “Why do you become a memory?” She said. He looked at her.“This. All…


Like a disease  it spreads in me.My nights go unnoticed.And days in a daze.My hands feel distant,Like someone else’.Like they wouldn’t do,What I say.Like they wouldn’t stroke my woes.Like they wouldn’t   hold my hollow.Tight.And everything leaks out.And my bed starts to doze off.And my table finds a corner.And curl up.They got infected.This disease,I’ve spread it…


In the dead of night, there,a dumb Nightingale played the flute well. When dreams went to scavenger hunting. And saints went to hell. When in freshly bloomed notebooks, pens scratched stories, that had nothing to tell.