It’s a windy day, and you’re boomerang in my mind, or rather a yo-yo back and forth, incessant mayhem, never lost.
Although to and fro I still search for you;
I still check the tree where we carved our initials to see if it burns with the same passion we once shared. All the while reminiscing, giggling about the prospect we told, about sharing our finite eternity together.
I still place my forefingers on the left side of my chest and the underside of my chin (the familiar one, which your hands couldn’t bear the urge to explore) and wonder if our hearts have remained in sync.
I still flick through the photos we took, negating me, so my eyes could hold you solely as the centrepiece. And as you encapsulate my peripheral, your statuesque looks through me, my attempts to meet her gaze are done with unfound desperation.
Now I peel the bark from the tree to unearth the truth, the once tree of life is now cold. Gone.
I need not check the rate of your pulse, as mine exists in irregularity when my thoughts are of you, and yours remains a constant “Ba-dum”, with no reason for variation.
Alas, as the “what’s” turn into “when’s” and the “where’s” transpire into the “why’s”.
A “who” is never uttered, for who else but you?
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
The doves coo for a mating call
I hold our umbrella with profound gall
For when Eros’ teardrops fell from the skies
I’d bear the brunt, put on a front
And give you our umbrella, just to dry your eyes
So, when winter comes and I call out your name
The cold of your nature dulls my flame
Fortune changes and shifts the tapestry
Thus, I pray for a kiss, and cling on to bliss
And sheath my heart, in vain, just to escape this tragedy
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 4:14 AM UTC
By the good grace of the gods, those who have dared to taint my face with a welt, shall receive divine punishment - and not by those who are deemed mighty high above or the denounced who dwell at a plane below mantle and core. But by me, solely me, without maledictions or the intangible, me. Smote by my might. I am not a dictator, nor a man filled with ill-intent, though my words will be carved upon stone and actions dignified in blood. For me to be assaulted in such a haphazardly manner. As a conclusion to you actions know that death is your prometheus, death to your people, death to your land, death to your cattle. My violence exceeds the confines of your cranium, in a similar fashion my anguish extends across the lands; it will agonisingly, crucifying in arduity, mundane if it has to chase and chastise you to the proverbial end of the world. So, to whatever omnipotence you pray to (or do not), it is futile, you will be reprimanded and dealt with promptly, death to all those you love, death to the vermin you shelter in your home by the vignette oil-lit-lamp and the capacious pillow you so pompously lay your head. -
death to you.
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 9:16 AM UTC
Leaves dance; leave--forsake
Chides the rose, plight, soft peril
"-my dolce headache”
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 4:34 PM UTC