Did you know?

Secrets are like the baby grass on the patch of
Grass next door; they flutter like the wings in the
Small breeze of late Autumn.

They glitter like the sand on the beach under the
Aurora last night; and they sleep like fairies under
Small mushrooms in the hidden forest.

If only you knew…

How many secret bookmarks were filed in my book,
And how many degraded, teared apart and
Fluttered away in the wind.

Ring, ring, ringing a bell
And singing towards the sound of crystals.
Too cold for a moonlight shine;
Too hot for a feast’s flame;
However just right it is, how softly
It sits and waddles its paws,
Little sundrops flop over the delicate
Leaves of colourful imagination.
A comfortably scorched piece and
To be seen tomorrow, see you next time.

Vibrant swordfish and
Tension that swells with time,
A cup full of ice.

If you would like to have F U N,

When shall we?

Shall we climb into some trees and
Seep our emotions into the autumn leaves?

Follow their transition along the seasons
And cuddle our nervous excitement through
Columns of xylem and phloem?

Bicycles go around, then a car.
A red car with yellow and white lights.

Yellow streaks, oh actually,
They are quite like an alveolus.

What fun looking at a single speck of
The city or village or town!

Friends of leaves skip around
And race their fellow buddies,

While another white car sweeps the
Concrete day-dreaming in the winter sun.

Today, the doorbell of my mental hideout rang.
It rang with a sound like twinkling waterfalls without the moisture,
And tweeted like a soft pillow from my 5-year-old camping nest.

The scorching glare of darkness crawled up the stairs and seeped
Past the crackling summer which was too cold for me.
It was a chill that was like purple and green and blue.

I went to a hut to produce my own perfume,
Scented with exhaustion and misery.
There is not much else I can add, the shelves are bare as if
A theif came in and out and never came back.

When silence finally speaks, it’s time I fall back into my chair,
A long forgotten place of rest. It’s not really that sweet,
Not really like the sugar leaves stored deep down in my
Bluish drawer.

Little things turn big and now
Incredible memories spin round and round.
Flying dreams are sometimes too quick to chase
Even though its me on the pilot’s seat.