Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The world beneath you slides

Nail dig through the dirt

Grasping onto what’s left

Holding onto the sliding, seeping sand

You’re left there yelling what about me ‘what about me’

Begging for empathy

Feel yourself leaving

Getting lost in the whirlwind

Scrambling, not knowing what ensued

The end of February

Marching into luke warm days

It gets comfortable than what cold last winter brought

You can stand bare

To the outside

Recognizing this very feeling

Of stealth chilly breeze

Flowing through your chest

And just like that lives change

Leaving yourself grieving the death of a relationship

In a room with four walls

You had been too trusting

But you can’t let my heart be as small as thier’s

Life is short to not look it in the eye
It saddens me to think

You couldn’t look at a me for who I was

Who I could have been

and not what you make of it

And not through your careless construct

and as consolation

for you to bank on when all else fail

It saddens me to think that

My emotions were never safe with you

That there was never a strive

It was disposable rather

Not just my flesh but my whole being

It saddens me to think that

Your emotions never found home in me

For I thought I found solace

A comfort

Are we so sad to face such fate

So unfortunate to lose it in a day

So flimsy

Was whatever was there

Couldn’t we communicate

Couldn’t you give me a day of respite

From thinking what sham this was

Can’t live a life so empty

So scared

Walking on precarious lies

I wasn’t built for this

I didn’t deserve this

To barely cling on

To loose thread of distrust

Low aspirations

It isn’t worth a life
Taba multipurpose trail, Thimphu.

Was seen hiking on that stretch
Just before recent lockdown was announced
Just in the nick of time
A short trial they found
Firm new boots striding proud
Stepping, crackling the pine leaves dry
Passing through the trunks and trees
Brown, pale, green, mud, ****, shrub…
She was seen filling her lungs with a lil air and smoke
Sitting on a bench
A tea break to breathe in affirmation
Filling the heart with a little hope,
Heard she’s healing
Learning, growing
Like twigs, branches and leaves
Of getting lost and finding ways

Hitting dead-ends

But treading along

With new found resilience

Strength of character

Delving into the depths

Of one’s core

Embracing the fall and the cracks

Soul searching


Through each passing day
It's gone.
I've checked.
I know.

But then,
it never was

Made mostly of scraps;
A rough frame of old bush lumber;
Walls of flattened fuel cans
and lime coated hessian;
A roof of corrugated iron,
battered and rusting.

Scorched by searing summer heat;
Blasted by dust storms;
Chilled by winter frost.

against the vastness of desert
that stretched in every direction
from the tiny bush town.

But it was home.
Within its walls
were love and care.
At its table
were sustenance and conversation.

For three years
we lived there
when I was a boy.

I'd rise early
and sit on the edge
of the gibber plain
with our dog
watching the sunrise.

One morning
I heard
the jangling of hobbled camels
returning to town
from a night
in the desert.

On another,
there were herds of cattle,
walked in from
an outlying station
for drafting and yarding,
then transport southward
in a train
hauled by a small steam engine.

At the stock-yard
we'd pretend to be cowboys,
prodding the cattle in the loading race
with sticks,
revelling in the dust and noise,
caring little for their terror
or their destination.

One day we hiked
out past the stock cemetery,
of carcasses leering sightless,
scavenged by crows.
We trudged
to the red sand hills,
then back to the rail-line
for a ride home
with the fettlers.

We went barefoot often -
foot-soles like leather
from the searing sand.
In the heat of the day
we'd pause in the scant shadow of a bush,
to choose the next meagre patch of shade,
then run like the wind
to roll on our backs,
waving scorched feet
in the air.

It's still all there in my memory.
Every few years
I take the old track north,
just to check,
to experience again,
to remember.

Other than the vastness of the desert,
it all seems smaller now -
one tiny settlement
within the compass
of an unbroken horizon.

The old house
is just a memory.

It's gone.
I've checked.
I know.

But then,
it never was
If you fold up your paper,
turn off your radio and TV,
sit on the steps and sip your tea,
watch the birds and speak no words
as the sun rises yellow and round,
making rainbows on the dewy lawn,
you could fool yourself into thinking
there’s no ****** war going on.
Next page