see the water glisten
like jelly, it quivers
in custody of foreign lands.

see the water swallow,
restraining my body.
all my life,
i’ve floated in uncertainty;
but now i’m held,
in complacent inevitability.

see the water mirror –
the deserted moon,
shining brighter, mightier,
than earth’s –
immortal, god sent
glorious diamonds.

see the water baptize
like alcohol, it cleanses
the past, the mistakes, and the regrets.

this feeling of finiteness
in the past couple of days,
savouring the smallest details
grateful for every second.

the streets buzzing with tourists and outsiders
taking over our city with their suburban bravado.
i choose to remain in the coolness of my home.
away from society - a voluntary banishment.

with an aching void and a punishing responsibility,
a freedom not taken for granted, but neglected.

aimless and without passion.
hopeless and without ambition.
helpless and without provision.

falling from great heights with no hope of return,
i pray for a calling, a mission, or a path.

i sit there in my lifeless, cold, grey room,
the rain taps on my window religiously.
the mist of the newly brewed tea rises,
as the dull brown liquid stains the white porcelain cup.

i sit there thinking, dreaming.
thinking, dreaming of what could be.
thinking, dreaming of what will be.
i think and dream of suffering and of relief.
i think and dream of failures and of success.
i think and dream of monstrosity and of perfection.
i sit there thinking and dreaming.

the grey intensifies, overwhelms, and dominates,
every speck of grey aims to blind and to bind me.
the objects of my thoughts and dreams become reality.
monsters and angels seep out of the corner walls.

nothing is all i can do.
but sit.
thinking.
dreaming.
waiting to be devoured.

another workday -
ignore the catastrophe,
bury your conscience.

another number,
type away the foreboding,
count down the minutes.

another dollar,
think about the bottomline,
excess overflow.

another warning -
it is coming to an end.
when will we wake up?

she paints an image of herself –
all flaws gone, erased from reality:
blissful heaven and ecstasy are all that are left.
brushes away her transgressions,
her fears and regrets.
sadness overpowered by a layer of cyan.

she is happy at this moment,
and the stroke after that,
and the stroke after that – i hope.
she is her own goddess – creator of beauty –
maker of paradise –
mother of thin, crowded jet-black lines.

every tint of ink, a new creation;
a bridge to herself;
a mirror of herself.
she is the artist striving for perfection.
every hour she batters herself.
every hour she compares herself.

aiming for the stars and beyond,
but she only fools herself –
for she is perfection.

how eerie it is to watch the unfathomable happen
right before our eyes, burning through
our privilege, destroying our make believe borders of protection.
neatly trimmed bushes, newly painted streets
yet there it is, the pandemonium of
the violence, the fear
scrolling through feeds to see lives taken
by the tip of a fuel raged knife
or by the impact of a charged bullet.
what was once seen on our tv,
now happening two blocks down
how unraveling to see that
our backyards are burning.