behind the black days and torture and pain,
two friends hold hands as they walk in the rain.
they are invisible to those who see, and don’t look,
as they watch the humans and the toil they took.

they feel emotional vampires brush past their skin,
looking for love and only finding sin.
they count the days long past and fallen,
wasted on skipped turns and hearts already broken

they are stepped on and over in raging mobs
that only exist to scream and complain and sob
about their wings that won’t let them fly
while those that try can only cry

they lie on thrones of thorns and roses
and watch as humans pluck and pose
they look away as they get dragged back down
they walk away as their smiles turn to frowns

they hold their noses as charred skin fills the air
watch as they tie themselves to electric chairs
laying their hands on the ones that survive
they wonder how the humans ever thrived

they smile sadly at the art piece on the floor
they had hoped that humans could be more
they finally leave their hopes to fall
maybe next time they’ll respond to their call

life and death walk hand in hand
looking at the vast grey land
then they merge in the shadows that run
finally showing their true form as one

from the shadows a crown of thistles and thorns
clothes sewn from all the halos and horns
a quiet voice echoes in the silent morning
maybe the curse was always a blessing

steel cold hard air slaps you in the face as you
awake for the somethingth time. you drag yourself
out of bed and drop right into the steel chairs
rolling about in your office, a resounding ring
echoing around the room. but with their grey faces,
they couldn’t care less. you work work work work
and work, until you finally drop dead back down
to your steel bed.

you never question why. you just do it, for fear
of… you don’t know what you fear. you just feel
a steel knife pressed hard to your neck, the edge
cold and slick against your sweat, ringing in your
ears a perfect harmony of death and life, a
sweet sweet sound of release, yet binding you to
this thing called reality

you don’t want to feel that way. you don’t want
to roll into every single day the same way you’ve
done every year you’ve existed (lived?). you want
a rhythm to your life, ups and downs and lefts and
rights, a waltz, a sonata, a symphony of life. so
you make your own reality.

one day, you just don’t wake up. you cling on to
a dream, something so rare, so beautiful and so
powerful. you hang on for dear life, yet not afraid
to fall into the abyss below, the black arms
reaching up to reach you, catch you. you stand
on your dream. you jump.

a flood of something shoots up your spine
apparently called emotions, and your muscles
tense up, as you fall fall fall and you’ve never
felt better, never felt so alive in your life. you
close your eyes, feel the wind whip your hair
in a flurry, your limbs limp by your side.

you feel happy. a smile creeps into a blazing
bout of laughter, ringing in the abyss like the sun
in the bleached sky, the rocks yellow and blue and
pink, a beautiful height of ecstasy, no trace of
grey steel at all, only you and the world.

you fall, and fall still. your dream. your reality.

they can only see a body splayed on the floor,
eyes bleeding pink yellow blue, limbs twisted
and bent, and a gigantic grin frozen onto a
background of fading light

we call it the light within, the core of our lives
critical to our survival, a light for all to see
we think it encompasses our conscience heart
mind, we think it is the reflection of our thoughts,
our very existence compressed into a glowing
ember of hope, love and life

we think that without it, death comes quick
and quiet, and quietly and quickly we go too
the air of our spirits, a fiery burst of determination
in even the darkest of days, a spark to revive
the flame that burns, an explosion of our colours
the very essence of ourselves

we don’t question why we think this way, we don’t
question how it burns, how it survives as well
we don’t see how it is a rock on fire, we don’t see
the price we pay, we don’t feel the tug on our
minds and hearts, how among the three, it is so
heavy, so so heavy, but we just can’t see

how does fire burn? it needs fuel, and we are the
fuel, burning us from the inside out, charring our
minds and hearts to a perfect crunchy crisp,
growing bigger and bigger, all-consuming just
like the humans are, always wanting more when
they already have more and getting less in the end
and still wanting more

slowly, we are overtaken by the flames we worship
as will everything in the end reduced to what we
actually are - a speck of dust in a universe
a universe of dust in a speck, reduced to ashes of
broken pride and nonexistent esteem, lost motivation
and dying wills, never realising their mistakes even
at the moment they die

i pity them. i pity their fake wings fake bodies fake
humans, their invisible burdens which are oh so
visible through uncovered eyes, resting on broken
backs, sprouting from the failing roots of a lost
life, desperately grabbing onto strands of sanity,
when they really are just tightening their own
noose

maybe their tears are their saving grace, wetting
their faces and hearts and minds so they don’t
immediately burst into ashes, the soaking mess
of misery grief and hopelessness, ironically
the things pulling them down to earth, keeping
them wet, so the fire of their soul does not
burn them up and out just yet

a relook at the soul: the spark within, tame at first
sight, before we feed it and do so gladly, spiralling
into a deadly monster of fire and darkness and all
we can do is to pacify satisfy it, with our minds and
souls and bodies till we fall back onto the fiery
soil as soil and soil once more

maybe humans deserve this life, and souls are just
blessings in disguise, and their ashes are meant
to be borne of the sky and sea, finally disappearing into particles of existence that
pollute our minds hearts souls.

or maybe they deserve a chance to fall asleep in
death’s soft arms.

you think that flowers are pretty and the forest
smells fresh and they are all made for you
just for you. you think that the green grass is soft
and the seas and skies and sand are all for you.
you think that nature is generous and kind
and good and pure just like you

i also wonder about humanity’s ever-increasing
records of stupidity, their eyes blind with anger
entitlement suspicion frustration the heat of rage
miniature suns burning and blistering and
destroying everything they see touch anything
in reach, thinking that all is theirs and theirs is all

they don’t see the blood on the floor and the
bodies lying all around. they step on them like
pillows on a road, rolling over them like the stones
they are, don’t see the teeth and eyes and edges
lying all around, all the traps biding their time,
waiting to crush a few pebbles

the true monster has yet to show, eyes shut
but not asleep, dormant but not oblivious
waiting in the shadows of the air and the black
days that the humans pass by like the stones they
are, blood pooling bodies rotting, and the humans
can’t care won’t care couldn’t care less as they
continue to fall

time is ticking and so is their patience, a silent
bomb waiting to be free of the grasps of dirt
and soil soiling its body, when finally nature strikes
back, strikes hard, as the humans fall ten by ten,
grass blades flying and petals dying, when nature
reclaims what has been stolen

nature will come back, and erase humanity like
moss on a stone, eating and destroying and
poisoning their already heavy hearts and souls,
dragging them over down into the earth, till
their blood has replaced theirs and their bones
have melted back where they came from,
and humans finally realise the moment just before
they fall from the earth, that it was all in their minds

they never owned nature, they were the ones that
needed her

nature never needed humans

they’re just mouldy stones at the bottom of a
fish tank long forgotten

there’s so many of them it’s almost impossible
to tell who’s living and who isn’t because of all the
sweat and stench of fear and deodorant
that masks their heavy breathing and
heavier hearts - burdens that they carry around
as if they were important. if only they knew that
wounds heal and scars fade, maybe, just maybe
they would already be flying

but of course you can see the halos and the horns
and the tails and the wings that flicker like
their souls in their hollow chests, only the slightest hint of their singular intention - to try to fly
but it’s the halos and horns and tails and wings that truly prevent them from flying

they are jealous of the birds that walk above and wonder how they fly - their hollow bones and hollower hearts uplift them to the black skies and
blacker stars. but these people full of blood and
bones and lifelessness are like stagnant stones
infested with dying moss, littering the ground like
ugly splotches on an ugly painting

only some know the way to hover and float above
everyone, instead of taking in they give out,
give out death and anger and hate and frustration,
let it flow like a river, washing down off away
the pain, like a stone caught in the gentle floods of
rage, leaving a trail of love and loss in the depths

these are the people who will rise up and rise
higher than anyone ever because they
know how to let go let off let be and
who don’t need wings to fly because they
know that memories are boulders and grudges are
killers and only when they give their whole
heart and soul then do they take off and



fall, fall when they realise they had asked for
too much, way too much, and realise that flying
has its own burdens, a paradise in hell, a curse
with the shading of a blessing, floating in the air
for all who reach out for to, and realise in the end:

walking was always enough.

lay your cards down on the table
the other one picks theirs up and holds it
up against their face the back of the cards
shining and shimmering in the dim candlelight
you know what they’ll do
they know what you’ll do

the rounded edges of the cards
thank you for your perfect trimming
pricking your fingers trying to
make your way around the points and corners
snipping and snapping the scissors go
one by one cloaking them in softness and warmth

the curtains sway in the sharp wind
the fireplace crackling in the clacking cracks
of the damp and dark walls, leaning
to the freshly opened smells of the decks
as they clatter around as clutter, filling up
your senses, sending you into a slight delirium

they take one of their cards
and let it float back down to the wooden tabletop
landing beside the bouquet of blood roses
a picture of the perfect gift appears
wrapped in all its splendour and glory: a ring of
pure diamond, of pure gold, of pure love

you happily dish out a stack of gilded cards
with no care or concern; you let some flutter to
the ground for the others to pick while they
eye your paper money with delicate hungry
hands hanging around, silently slipping some
into their own deck as you smile

the candle flickers as they play another card,
a portrayal of a house, a quiet place to call home
with children, hundreds, dancing and skipping
and being children, and all you can and want to do
is let the cards stream out of your hand, your
laugh lines creasing your already weathered mirror

the game goes on, no qualms about stopping,
and neither do you, as your wrinkles take over
your face in a sweep, with them mirroring yours,
the wind getting wilder, your hair in a storm,
a stack of chaotic cards in the middle, spiralling
about the room in a frenzy as the candle goes out
and darkness ensues and you reach out for them
in the now growing mess of a restaurant and the
curtains blow past your face windows shattering
and all you can think about is them them them them them and when you finally reach the other side of the table and breathe

no one is there. the table flipped over
like a game long lost and forgotten
and all the cards lying dead and roses pooling on the floor and oh how you want to follow suit;
but this game is too fun and you go on to the next
round, sweeping card edges off your suit.

awkward smile sticky wave
both stuttering in faked honesty and false sincerity
words crafted and sewed to fit around the other
perfectly like a blackened cardigan
lined with sweet sweet poison

killer eye contact keeps you out
and keeps you coming back for more
the risk and danger of falling into the grasps
of a worse person than you
is tantalising like munching on melatonin morsels
while dancing away from death’s ***** door

when backs are turned
smiles die and waves collapse
into the sweaty twisting of fingers
and the twisting of mouths into large long grins
ready for the first conversation the first contact
traps ready they turn around

with even bigger smiles
starting with the sharpened hook
of a fairytale introduction where
one came from antarctica and the other from hell
giggles and laughter only serve to make hair stand
cringing inside so much their stomach is a braid

poison and sarcasm don’t drip like honey
they slide and slither and burn like snakes
in the grass, camouflaged in the already dark night
up they go into your brain your mind your soul
feasting on your fear your weakness your love

then comes the main course the connection
the stories of broken childhoods in succession
not stopping for a tear or a comment
flowing like the poison flowing like the river
of thoughts that fall from your head
as the story goes on, getting stuck in the endless
ebb and flow and tide and spiral of hypnosis

it’s too late when you realise
you’re in his palm his hand his fingers
a puppet for pain of pain by pain
the strings no your own strings
wrapped around your own hands your own feet
your mind caught in its own trap

just a tunnel to the other side
a flight of steps in a thunderstorm of rickety
elevators to be stepped on and off
crumbling to dust in the very end
an underpass to the above, just the cement
crusted and turned to stone frozen
in time, unmoving, resigned

and finally you sleep
in your own cocoon you made for him
tighter and tighter the strings are
the more tired you become
falling into the eternal rest
barely slipping from the dancing fingers of death
slipping past it into a place
your place, faraway
lost in your own dreams and nightmares

this is humanity’s very own Pandora’s Box
watch as it unfolds watch as it unlocks

besties for life - what are friends for

to be used as an ends to your means
a toy to play with, a shortcut to your goal
a rag doll to shield your schemes
thrown away when growing mould growing old

love is a game - you won’t get bored

for like minded killers and villains
to slowly entrap, their lives under the lake
till spiralling obsession and infatuation bleeds pain
leaving the world with one less snake

people are leeches - death at the core

don’t get too close or you’ll become a shell
their heartless chests hold more than just evil
one wrong step gives way to vampirical spells
one more trick leads you straight to the devil

nature is a curse - thorns at the fore

we think we own it - it owns us
we sleep on thrones of poison ivy
we survive on the shadows of feeble trust
we bide our time before this becomes a privy

souls are myths - just emotional ******

we scream and moan and shout and cry
hanging onto threads of sanity
we think we’re brave, we’re scared to die
******* our own blood - please join us for tea

reality is dreamland - we hide behind closed doors

we cover our eyes so we can see
whatever we see is what we believe
what we believe are all the lies we’ve been
dreams are ghosts of things we’ll never achieve

maybe once we’ve reached the limit the ceiling the floor
we’ll learn our lesson, once and for all