She held a conversation with the cracks in the ceiling,
called them sisters, called them home.
They answered back in whispers
of storms she never asked for.
A thousand tiny earthquakes
under her paper-thin skin.

Her hands were maps to nowhere,
veins like rivers running dry.
She carried every "I'm fine"
like a brick in her chest,
a cathedral of lies built from silence
and the prayers no one heard.

She danced on shards of herself—
sharp edges, aching heels,
the broken girl waltzing with the ghost
of who she used to be.
Each step a soundless scream,
each cut a hymn to the hollow.

And when she shattered,
it wasn’t like the movies—
no slow motion, no violins,
just the raw crack of a soul
splitting open,
a kaleidoscope of pain
spilling into the dark.

The wind gathered her pieces,
spinning them into stars,
while the moon wept softly
for the girl who gave her light
away.

"Mum?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I asked Fat Bertha to marry me."

"And?"

"She said yes!"

"Oh, that's fantastic! You are a very lucky boy. Women like Bertha don't come along very often."

"I know. I'm over the moon."

"If it all goes wrong, remember there's always Mrs. Brown next door. Ha ha ha!"

"Oh, God no. That woman needs locking up. I barely got out alive last time I knocked."

"It's your rugged good looks, son."

"I dunno about that. I think she'd pounce on any fella with a pulse."

"Hee hee, funny boy. So, will I be a grandmother this time next year?"

"Blimey, Mum, we're not even married yet."

"Bet you're getting in plenty of practice though."

"Jesus! Stop it, you're embarrassing me."

"Aw, my little soldier is getting wed. You make me so proud, you do."

"Love you, Mum."

"Love you too, sweetheart. Now, can you pop next door? I need to borrow some sugar."

"Mum!"

While the interpretators are putting together
the interpolators
are extracting out

Then presage
dubulators
encliticly
compile  
their mistakes

The soothsayers
are cloud-mongers
diviners of the light
They go to bed
and rise again
like anyone who might

The sorcerers
possess broken shreds
flinging incantations
and drugs about
While the dreamers
examine the threads
of last night so they claim to find it out

Here I was thinking
I looked all dapper:
With my cream pants,
Cteam top with a woven stitch,
And my cream suit jacket.
My royal blue glasses
Shielding my eyes from the rays of the morning sun,
But a small knick to my pinky finger
Left blood stains…

We all walk around life
With our pains imprinted in our skin,
And sometimes clothing.
As much as we try to hide,
Wash away impurities,
We are left stained,
With life.

Love bade me 'trust in my word'
'Come away with me to a deserted place-
and I will speak to your heart'.

from East to West a pain without name, something inescapable, like the girdle of caskets, like a corpse. we struggle with what seems to be mostly an idea - the dimensions of the body, with the memory of the skin, with the history of contracting our bellies and puking our dreams. this world covered by layers, textiles, invisible armours, self-imposed absences. tears crushed by violence, by laughter, after all it was not that bad, they say. we carry so many tears that we are heavier than air, lighter than our tormentors, sillier than our dreams
crushed words, crushed voices, empty meanings for the unraveled selves. i write only a chronicle of this time devouring its fragments

Star-child Sun-kissed
a Moon to swoon over
where lovers do meet

the rising of pulse
blood flushed
shaky legs...

a kiss from Moonbeams
dreamers dream
a heady mix

I learned love isn’t always beautiful
Love will cut like a samurai sword
Like a ninja warrior in broad daylight,
It will hurt and may scar you for life.
It's not true that love shouldn't ever hurt,
The hurting just shouldn't be in vain.
Hurt in vain, is suffering.
And who the f….has time for that?