THE CHILD Margaret begins to write numbers on a Saturday morning, the first numbers formed under her wishing child fingers.
All the numbers come well-born, shaped in figures assertive for a frieze in a child's room.
Both 1 and 7 are straightforward, military, filled with lunge and attack, ***** in shoulder-straps.
The 6 and 9 salute as dancing sisters, elder and younger, and 2 is a trapeze actor swinging to handclaps.
All the numbers are well-born, only 3 has a **** on its back and 8 is knock-kneed.
The child Margaret kisses all once and gives two kisses to 3 and 8.
(Each number is a bran-new rag doll ... O in the wishing fingers ... millions of rag dolls, millions and millions of new rag dolls!!)

Sitting on the rocking chair
in the dark corner
of his dimly lit study
with gaze transfixed
on the steam rising
from the coffee mug
he rolled cigarette
between his fingers
caressing his forehead
with other hand
he put the cigarette
between his lips
and
inhaled the bitter smoke
with a hope that
it will be the antidote
to her memories
poisoning his soul
cigarette after cigarette
pack after pack
inhaling, exhaling...
Drowning himself
in the greyness of smoke
to the world outside,
he was nothing
but an addict
but little did they knew
that it was his only way
to save himself
to build the thick wall
of acrid smoke
between him and her ...

So many unanswered questions buried deep within
They've been locked away to camouflage an unsavoury past
The realisation of it all is a living nightmare
The agony it brings unreal
Why should anyone bear so much anguish
When will this grind to a halt
We all need a peace of mind
Or else we'll just fall into pieces
Why sit when you can stand
Here is resolute compulsion for it
A call to action
My resolve is to trod on
Never to falter
Push on till the finish line
No guts no glory

how does it feel
when someone loves every
little
piece
of you?
even the broken parts.

I miss you.
But I don’t want to be the one that misses you.
I need you to miss me.
I know that we’ll meet again someday, somewhere.
I can feel that in my soul.
The universe isn’t finished with us yet.
Maybe it’s fate, destiny, whatever.
I do believe in that.
But I also believe that you can make your own destiny.
So tell me please
Do I wait for that someday, somewhere?
Or do I find the courage to make it happen now?