If reality is a bowl of
smashed cereal,
irreconcilable with
wholeness;

Then dreams are those
cartons of overnight
milk, mixed with reality
for a sour solace.

Confessedly, I try to read you
like a poem. The vowels your
lips hug, how your teeth
bite the consonants, the
salivary slips of the tongue:
Flashed. On the surgeon's
table for inspection, diagnosis.
But how your syntax spurts
across, your rhythm irregular
unlike heartbeat. Your stream
of consciousness running,
unceasingly as blood. Your
diction as numb as anaesthetics
(as alarming as a sudden
awakening mid-surgery.)

Even if I could dissect your speech,
your mind remains a mystery.

It cycles between its pink
nascency and purplish age.

The same ambivalent yellow
as yesterday, today.

(It says something.)

That we are a consequence:
An echo, a shadow, a chill?

From loud words, night lights,
or an unsettling question of

our inconsequential and silent
stardust existence?

(It says Nothing.)

we lurk in the shadows
of metaphors, and waltz
with words (the blank
white space before this
line is the distillation
of the words on the
page). white is the purity
of our thoughts in which the
black words stain. we wrap
our intentions in images and
grotesque images do not
appear here, like
the foot: that awkward hand-
resembling body part, arched
in some reluctant embrace
with the sooty (or sterile)
ground. it lives its underground
life, divorced from sunlight,
or naked without inhibition.
it belongs there, and not on
paper. yet we forget that
on life's tightrope,

we walk only with our feet.

"your life is one epic poem and
if you fail to turn blood into words,
you'd look back and see yourself  
an anthology of unwritten poems."

I.
her soft footsteps shuffle from their slumber,
awakening the hushed orchestra of:
metal spoons and kettles and tinkling cans,
the jingling of boiling milk, of half-boiled eggs,
the sounds of breakfast.
(the sun is sleeping on its horizon)

II.
her ceaseless footsteps are not weary with night,
on your bed, you hear that decorative tune:
spoons, kettles, cans, stained cups and bowls
washing themselves after dinner.
(the moon is resting on its zenith)

this quiet love.

squatting between
sunset and sunrise,

not belonging

to the break of day
nor the numbness of night.

(awkwardly mid-day.)