The words I take from my left breast pocket
Come out like silly business cards
The ones I pull from my front jeans pocket
Come out like a nuisance, spare change
But the words that come easiest by far
Are the ones that spout from my heart
They glitter like gems with unending shine
So I give them quite often as gifts
Humble and pretty
Wrapped as brown paper packages
Tied off with a rhyme of twine
I gift them endlessly
To all and any
Without a thought of return in mind

I read a story today.

Like any good story it was layered upon the premise of the love between two perfect strangers.

Like any good story it was about romance that blossomed... and then flourished as quick as it was fierce.

Like any good story it spun a far-reaching web of hope and longing whilst still holding on to the uncompromising nature of responsibility to one's dreams.

Like any good story, there was a spot of intimacy. The gradual build up of physical and psychological attraction that culminated in the merging of two, was nothing less than tasteful.

Like any good story there was conflict.
But it was not the cliched garnish that involved oppressive parenting styles nor glaring racial differences.
It did not rope in the overused notion of "we're so different, we're two parts of a whole".
It was... a beautiful conflict.
One that does not allow the audience to choose sides.
In fact, it encourages you to think inward and root for both parties - be them together or apart.
If anything at all, it boils down to the pursuit of each individual's happiness.

Like any good modern day story, it ended with a breath held in a gasp. You hold it there for the longest moment and you have to close that breath with a heavy sigh of loss.
It also leaves you with ample room to deliberate the "what if" factor.
Happy endings last a while but sad ones... they rip a hole in you that almost never closes...
and you cannot help but go back to read it over and over again in the hopes of finding the elusive right answer or the best alternate ending.

Like any good story it was tailored in my fit. Because I envisioned myself in it. I got consumed by it. Overwhelmed by it, enough to almost break the pipes.

And like any good story, it's worth keeping...
In heart and in mind.

So I read a story today. And I didn't want it to end.

I can remember from childhood
Was the night of that terrible fever
My bed was a plank
Wooden under my spongey bones
My sharp breaths hit my body
From an invisible assailant
Spiked blows to my mattress
That pierced my flesh clean
And punched wind right through my blankets

Then came the hoods
Surrounded my bed in inky blackness
They blotted out the stars
And smothered my night light
Even a young child would
Expect death after such a vision
Only one last shaky breath left
I was almost certain

Then it appeared
Almost angry and fearsome
My fair golden haired champion
A brilliant figure dazzling light
It punctured that dark shroud
Shred it to absolute pieces
And restored me
Back to this life

The winter winds blew in
Carrying salt from the sea
And ice from the north
It whipped and raged
Like a monster thrashing
At his invisible chains

And we brace ourselves
With layers and fire and coal
Dousing the monster
Dampening his roars
With our crackling embers
And hot cocoa hands

But you and I
With your eyes like arctic frost
And mine aglow with summer's
Forest fires and charred woods
We leave behind the warmth
To dance gentle in the chill

From spitting flame to air,
Air that burns like fire in this cold
And still we hear the roaring.
Us two, pale as fresh snow
Soulful as the cinder sun
We distmantle and destroy

Monster! Monster! With eyes,
Eyes like storms and sky
And lungs of triumph and freedom
We three, treading blizzard winds
Spirits dancing gentle, and joy!
Joy boundless, as the winter roars

Oh, mother of manes
Tell me about your pain
Thy unnerving conquest
Is but a game

Roll the dice
And tell the price
Watch the bodies pile
Take a walk to hell
To claim your prize

Before you realise
The mythology
Metamorphosis




For in that realm-
There she frolics
With them ghosts and the dead
For that holly-holic
Alcoholic nightmare
Laid neatly on a bed
Of flames


Oh, you mother of manes

Me ?
I am

mesmerised by madness
A chaotic sadness within
Your head


Oh, my queen of dread
You are
In every withered poets dream
In words those speak
Loud enough
For the living to cherish

I must perish
Before she claims me
And another one of her lies

Oh,
and please don't tell me
It's that easy
To stay mad forever
Without ever closing your eyes.