Though the loneliness sets in, among the crowds,
Here, within themselves, they find their solace;
Euphoric events have now lost their appeal;

Mindfulness is the key to rest, they recite;
Exaggerated were their extravagant emotions on the dance floor,
Losing themselves in self discovery;
Over-sensationalized was the persona,
Diving into the depth of purple elixirs;
Rave, rave, rave,
As the sun replaces the strobelights,
Melancholy rises with her rays,
And suddenly, life seems meaningless;
The melodrama,
It strikes;
Cleaning up the champagne glasses, after the catastrophe

Cashmere of the Earth,
You carpet the ground;
Invasive in nature,
Creeping where you shan't be,
Uninvited;

Cashmere of the Earth,
What secrets do you keep from me?
For your fickle roots of deception cling onto the fruitful bark,
Only to be blown away when the clouds rage;
And the truths of your Eden call my name;

O, Cashmere of the Earth,
Lush is the lust of your soft touch;
For you are a blooming forest,
In which the fibres of your being blossom amidst the lures of this world;
Your growing greens grasp the barren ground,
The ground that cannot nurture you any longer;

Cashmere of the Earth,
You cushion the rocks with tenderness;
But you must clutch onto them harder!
Else the waves will erase the memory of your velvet embrace,
Leaving only the desolate stone;

Cashmere of the Earth,
Where are you to creep now?
The Tree will not sustain you any more,
For you are nothing but a mere illusion;
An ornate facade, soon to fade away

April in Dublin signifies not only a time and place, yet a feeling. A feeling of the brisk morning air, woven into the intricacy of light, sparse rainfall; enough to coat the blooming leaves on Ailesbury Road in droplets of dew. Tiny puddles form in between the cracks of the ancient cobblestone road, drowning the lush moss – basil in colour – that once grew in its place. As dawn makes her presence, the radiant sunlight peeks through the branches of the Sycamore trees, originally sheltering the lane from the indecisiveness of Irish weather. The earthy scent of petrichor emanates from St. Stephen’s Green, while the putrid scent of damp cigarette stubs race to reach the nostrils first. Petals of blush cherry blossoms gracefully fall to the asphalt path, with some caressing tender skin with its velvet touch. In the afternoon, St. Patrick’s Cathedral echoes in Church Latin, whilst the cars pass – with their bellowing engines – on The Coombe, pacifying the hum of pedestrian chatter that cohabitate simultaneously. As cloudy skies fade to a blue dusk, the lights jig the River Liffey; its yellow reflection moving with the waves. Crowds drunkenly skip along the quay, singing old Celtic hymns off key, while also digesting the sweet, caramelized, mild bitterness of Guinness – the finest of Irish stout beer. At the end of the day, the night retires to her slumber, anticipating newer ordinary, yet sensational experiences that May will bring along.

going home isn’t always
returning to a place.
sometimes
it is returning to yourself.

oceanic feeling echoing throughout my house
while tripping over my plaid pajama pants
and the soles of my feet rejuvenated by the hot concrete