knot
        **upon
                    knot of ironies
that leave us        (upon
                                       knot)
to disentangle                        upon
irony from irony                            knot  
                                               ­                  (from irony)

you probe deeper into the earth
- not to find silver coins or black jewels -
but to find my skeletons, my bones
and it's hinges, it's sponges, it's cavities
which hold my past in it's hollowness.

and because the earth is asset to none,
you may yet uncover the bones of your arms,
with those very wretched arms of yours.

(why for do you dig for ours,
when you'll only find your skulls?)

temptation is not
an angel right and a devil left:
there are no halos, no wings, no horns, no tails
who whisper into your conscience,
your eyes do not wipe your sockets
like wipers do the windscreen
to try resolve those dissonant whispers.

temptation is itself a full-stop.
not mid-sentence of an incomplete line.
you think you are mid-sentence,
but you're already surrendered.

no halos, no horns.

too often you **** me with your
monosyllabic question: your lips
form it, so gradually, and hence,
inquisitively, that i,  i would not
miss that diphthong you emphasised,
that question of why - yet too often
i find myself unable to proceed
beyond because...

the night sends its stars to watch for us,
assures us with its shimmer and silence;
but tonight it inhales the bonfire's breath,
when our dreams were all too fresh.

if you place a stethoscope inquisitively on the
beating chest of your life, expect to hear a -
plod, plod, plod.

you'd think it to be the footsteps of a
fumbling toddler; fumbling feet
feeling the flat, alien earth.

or the muffled footsteps of a stranger
stumbling into your path, turning your
tables, stumbling into your life.

you could regret that it wasn't your
feet's soundless plodding on the moon,
that there was no greatness in your silence.

while at times you remember
the footsteps of friends converging
into your life - diverging from it.

and then to cease all speculation -
you recognise the footsteps
of god at your doorstep.

The soft, sparse sunlight spills through the curtains
and approaches me the glow of flitting fireflies,
fond as a lover's hand running the islands
of your face - the ****** morning it baptised.
How sunlight and skin, intangible and tangible,
dances on each other flirtatiously, tickles.
For a few moments I sleep bound in a curl,
like a child experiencing what joy could be.
But as the minutes trickled by,
the loving caress too trickled into a beating,
beating itself on the chest of mine,
oh, sunlight - you were still gentle this morning.
Alas! - all things are sweet in its mornings,
but time will tell the truth come evening.