Minutes, hours,
Reclaim, power
Need your warm touch
Gives me new life.

The heart is beating,
Lungs are seizing
Open mouth breathing
Wheezing, seething
Need your warm touch
Brings me a new glow.

Anger, rising,
Demon, conniving
Inner whispers -
Tenebrous fingers
Gripping my light
Snuffed out, the candle
Need your warm touch
Bring me back home.

Alone I stand,
In a white land,
Nothing drawn in
It’s all forgotten.
Blinding, white light
Darkest, black shroud
Feel the floor shake
Bottomless, free fall
Need your warm touch

Wake me up

Happy birthday- its what they'll say
With voices which typed words delay
Where on your behalf today, they'll wish
Simply for your happiness

A wish to me, is like the Horizon
An imaginary line of undefined potential,
Forever fading when approached.
With its endless opportunity preceding the powerless thrill of pursuit-
Forever fading,
we approach.

When Happiness is fleeting
as all emotions are,
The golden light of  this April's dawn-
Not silhouetted, scars.

Days pass, nights pass.
In the silence of the night, where shadows dance,
I find solace in dreams that grow ever stronger.
I wander this world as a prisoner of hope,
And with every dream, my heart finds a home.
I'll make myself a cup of tea and lie down—I won't get up; why should I?
For I, a captive of dreams, need nothing but a dream
in which I believe with all my heart.
Perhaps someday—or even right now—it may come true;
but most likely, I will continue to dream...

a candle dances and burns in a distant window
while the city beams as if the night
never needed any light.
As if the flame screams to be what illuminates
the crossroads and windows.
Bound to its wick.
A candle who wants to be a star, to join the sky all eyes find peace in.
Longing to be more but still fulfilling
it’s sad purpose.
Tears of wax, only full of potential in the dark.
The city hums an artificial tune,
the candles wails the song of your essence.
Yearning to explode in the sky though
condemned to glow in isolation.
a candle dances and burns in a distant window
to give all eyes a warm welcome.
while the city beams as if the night never needed any light.
Dreams of ignition without restraint.
Still only wax and wick.
Destined to soften, burn, melt.
Still it shows off its light.
Not because it’s seen.
But because it cannot help but glow.

Last night I dreamt
Of music
And theatre
Front row seats

I could see
Every expression
Every fake tear
Every barely hidden laugh
Like I was in on the joke

There were some others
Too, I think
People I knew
People I loved

Together we smiled
There, in the front
Upon plush red seats
Numbers 88
To 91

Until suddenly
BOOM!
The air ripped me apart
Only a second of realisation
Before that world was gone

If I could compare it,
It would be like kerosene to a flame, combusting when mixed.

A Fourth of July spectacle,
As bodies collide to thunderous applause,
And all the colors expand in the clash,
Like an explosion of blooming flowers,
Scented with our filth and sweat.

If I could describe it,
It would be carnal, unmentionably visceral.
How the grip of hair pulled back causes such sounds,
And pools of waves crash from your shore to the boat mast,
Begging me to come to sea and ride in your tropical waters.

We are a storm,
Fronts mixed until the twisting begins,
And like a cyclone, this room becomes ground zero.
Broken lamp shades, decimated sheets,
Bed frames torqued and twisted.
We are animals of nature, driven by a need,
Like an addict’s itch to scratch beyond the surface.

If I could, I would bottle it like a Red Bull,
Sell it to give others a taste of your wings,
Intertwined with the notes of my demonic horns,
Rooted with ginger and a splash of lemon,
And all the dopamine a depressed person should need.

It is that good, and you are a drug I could never quit.
A kiss upon the peach flesh,
Or tender lips, with just a hint of mint.

Adrift in shadows, hollowed by the night,
Yet gratitude still flickers, frail but bright—
A thirst for dawn, though weighed by whispered sorrow,
We clutch the fraying thread of tomorrow.

The ache of absence hums, a silent hymn,
Melancholy’s wine pools to the brim.
But in these ruins, treasures softly gleam:
A map of scars where longing dared to dream.

Our story trembles, ink on splintered wood,
Yet pulses warm where hopelessness once stood.
The thread, though thin, spills gold through vacant air—
A silken ladder climbing despair.

We’ll stitch the rift where darkness bleeds to blue,
And weave the tale our hunger dares renew—
For even fractured light still claims the skies,
And dawn persists in tired, stubborn eyes.

in my little dream
in my little head
i think of you all day all  long
a thought, a glance, a song
i think of you all day all  long
just a dream
between me and you
just an eye contact
between me and you
just a dream
just nothing
between us
nothing

Woke within a dream,
amidst dense forest.

a tree stood,
older than time,
casting its shadow.

a touch of it,
showed all it had lived—
bloodied sword clash,
clouds that wept for years,
flora it wore,
wildflowers it shielded,
the warmth it once kissed.

yet it stood still.
as I faded,
back into the dream.

The Sailor’s love for the sea started at the age of thirteen.
From there he embarked upon a journey,
wondering what his life might end up being.

A mighty crew, and a great Captain too boot, they sent forth, looking for all the loot.
By the age of nineteen, the Sailor saw a lot.

From drunken fights which ended with no love lost,
to great bouts of strength between rivals a plenty,
while losing not much,
from great storms waged with such might,
and lovely beauties who roamed the night.

Yet the Sailor was not happy,
seeing the world was full of plenty,
an ache for the soul,
which left him to toil.

He set off at first light,
without any worry nor fright,
to look for an adventure, an Odyssey,
and look for his own Penelope.

High and low he scoured,
looking what his heart desired,
even went to the countryside,
for by chance his heart could reside,
in need of desperate respite.

Yet he could not give in,
to the trouble burrowed deep within,
an ache he missed,
a way out of the mist.

Once he came back he worried,
what would they think or would they leave in a hurry?
Just then the Captain saw him and said,
“The sea is great, plenty of opportunity,
so don’t you worry, the sea holds aplenty.”

And then he saw the Truth,
to have such a crew,
the mighty Captain too,
is when he knew.

The sea in its eternal blue,
holds many clues,
for those who seek,
amongst the wreckages,
treasures can lie within different avenues,
and still look for the great Muse.