It was written in deep magic -
in tongues that danced in shadows
of bubbling cauldrons
as green smoke filled the air -
that no witch will stand alone.
It was said that we will stand
and stand together,
down to every drop of blood,
down to every dry bone.

And stand we do,
for the night brought on by Man
is not the easiest to melt into
a new dawn.
Stand we do,
for our first lines of defence
are the very hands that we bring along.

Never bring a sharp tongue
to a witches' fight,
it is said -
for our quiet strength alone
can bring your downfall,
as long as we stand together.

And stand, we do.

never has the sky looked down
and declared that today,
dreamers must find new sights to see;
that birds must find
new places to be.

never has the sky decided
that a million wires
are enough lines to cut across
its silken expanses,
he always makes room for more -
neatly dividing spaces
that everyone is allowed to
dream in.

and so you ask me,
why the wires to cut in
to his beauty?

and i'll say,
it's because he knows exactly
how they carry words to him,
which may otherwise
never be said again.

humans are silly, silly creatures -
we need this, that, the other -
oxygen and purpose
and other such silly, silly features.

we love being exactly
where we're not supposed to -
making home in ice, in fire,
in the depths of the earth,
even ******* space,
and everything else
that we're fundamentally opposed to.

call us stubborn or rebellious,
or just plain crazy -
humans love to declare their residence
in places where Nature
might have been especially lazy.

all we do
is throw flowers on a table,
set in the middle of nowhere
and call it home,
and then we concoct a new fable -
so other homes may feel less alone.

sometimes,
my brain finds solace
on a sweet picnic table -
set up for a short tea,
on tatami mats,
in a garden with half a blanket
of pink-white blossoms
sleeping on the earth.
on such days,
my words settle into
seventeen sweet spots -
no fuss, no muss -
like schoolchildren after a field trip,
too tired and hopefully
too content
to rebel.

sometimes,
my words come to rest
as if my heart and my hands
are all weary travellers,
and i sent them to retrieve riches
that are way beyond
belonging to seventeen neat corners.
and so i apologize,
i call it laziness,
offer some food for thought,
and a warm place to rest
between the
three
simple
lines
of a haiku.

the art of procrastination
is just that -
exactly what it says
on its faded, beaten label -
an art in itself;
a weathered process
that has divided humanity,
much like its more
celebrated
brethren - painting, dancing,
maybe even writing poetry.

the art of procrastination
makes no bones -
it is made of unequal
and ever-changing parts
of chaos and consistency,
passion and practice,
destruction and discipline,
all at once.

it is learning that
you can train yourself
to not feel fearful of
whatever doom is upon you,
but also struggling to stay
just barely afloat
when the tides of said doom
sweep you off your feet.
it is both vain strength
(to think you can outrun Time)
and smart cowardice
(to trust that you can hide from Time)

the art of procrastination
does not beat around the bush -
to master it,
you must walk on the serrations
of a double-edged dagger -
both balance
and falling beyond measure
can ruin the practice
of the oldest art
in all of existence.

the written word
will never do justice to a woman,
and yet i try to capture
the movements of strangers
as their lives weave in and out
of each others'.

with what ink
can i write down the colours
of a woman's day,
as she goes about her day -
measured movements,
silent prayers,
unsettled glances.
what metaphor
can ever perfectly capture
how she navigates tides and tides
of love and loss
and everything in between
like a sailor without
a North Star.
what verse
can perfectly worship
her strength, her fears,
her joy, her tears,
and everything that lies
in the middle of nothing,
nowhere.

i try to write down
a woman,
but my words,
any words,
will never be enough.

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words.

they are cordially invited
to bring their joys into my home,
(sorrows optional, if you do not
have sorrows of your own,
some will be provided to you)
i am always excited
to have new inhabitants living
in electronic pages of my memory,
if only for a night.

i love it when i know
the weight of a soul
just enough
to set it down gently,
surrounded by literary furniture
so it feels at home.
i love to watch from afar,
patiently,
while these people
find their bearings
in the monstrous maze
that is my poetry.
they get lost sometimes -
in mixed messages,
messy metaphors,
silly sentences,
violent verses.
I am in awe of how gently
they can navigate my mind
and come to rest
in a corner that they make
for themselves,
and no one else.

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words -
a small colony,
a peaceful civilization -
with the occasional war,
a rare skirmish.

their homes have windows,
and on most days,
i don't mind
letting the world have a peek.