Second Wind

Second Wind Jan 2017

The best kind of poetry,
is the kind that can speak
without a single word.

Second Wind Jan 2017

a mere whisper
an entanglement of words
can send you spiraling down a dark path
you can never leave behind

the syllables
strewn like seeds
across your tongue
spread and collapse on your aching mind

you cut and prune
every morning noon and night,
but the thorns dig into your flesh
your hands tied within the vines.

the only way to **** a secret
the only way to end the lies
is to disentangle all of the chaos
and follow the little white line.

Once you reach the black hole
which has become the center of your life
you must find what feeds it,
and you must confine.

Open it to the light
and separate it from the dark
and it will shrivel up and be blown away like ash

for now...

Second Wind Jan 2017

Polar night

Time used a sleight of hand
stealing a slice of daylight.
Throwing the sun-rays in a pool of black
prolonging the cold night.

The scenery resembled that
of a snow globe, viciously shaken.
Framed by frozen lashes,
and wishes long forsaken.

The snowflakes forming a cocoon
of bitter coldness and misery.
Morning became afternoon
and the darkness remained so thick you can't even see

Shivering lips released a misty cloud of prayers,
begging for daylight to come.
Skin raising bumps to match the night sky
yearning for the warm caress of the sun.

Flesh and snow became indistinguishable,
as time started being undone
All that was left, was to make snow angels
and then become one.

Those framing frozen lashes,
flutter to a close.
The snow angel preparing
for an eternal doze.

Brilliant light appeared,
sprinting across the sky.
The lashes tore open,
lips uttering one last cry.

The sky filled not with sunlight,
but a sign that the sinful angel was forgiven.
It looked like God spilled His paint,
while coloring the heavens.

The northern lights
claimed the sky
singing the angel to sleep
with one last lullaby.

Second Wind Dec 2016

The reader

I feel like an old, fragile book
Falling apart... Flourished love fading from my spine.
Every pointless conversation with some pompous pretentious peacock leaving dark red circles on my pages.

I can feel myself tearing at the seams
Wind stealing the rustling pages of my dreams
All because you're not here

God might be the authentic, artistic author...

But you are the reader

your delicate eyes, woo each syllable.
You're the reason manicured, savage nails haven't been able to tear pages so feeble

You are not the writer... But the reason my story was written in the first place

You are the reader

Every swirl, curl and loop designed to carress your mind
Every drop of ink, perfectly shaded to match your eyes

You are the reader

The one who turns solemn pages into a fluttering melody
Giving the disarray of letters meaning

And I can't wait to feel your soft hands tracing my cracked spine
Your careful finger tips tracing every word and line.
I can't wait to behold you unfold every story untold.

I can't wait for you, to climb back into my world of words.

Because somehow you read this book,

When it ran out of prose, woes and poems.

even when it's left abandoned by fancy idioms and metaphors

Indescribable ink dancing no more.

You read this story... When all there was, was a blank, bland, bare block of white
Beckoning for you to complete it.

And when asked why...

You simply said , "because I am the reader"

Second Wind Dec 2016

Bursted bubble

Lips pressed together to form an 'o'
Releasing a breath, ever so slow.
The air was caged in a soapy dome
Racing towards the neighbouring ozone

A warm breath fading into midnight blue.
Evicted air just trying to pass through.
The sky hurled tear drops down,
steering the troubled bubble into a ghost town.

Sneaking through a forgotten crack,
lost in a creaking wooden shack.
A little girl of two,
came skipping into the room.

She looked at the dislodged air,
as if it was a silent prayer.
She held out both of her little hands.
An oasis in this waste land.

Closer, warmer, safer, just don't rush
, but as soon as the little bubble touched
It was gone.
Seen by no one

The bitter breath finally free

— The End —