Behind these doors and below
The grand stage lights,

The music spills over the seats
Like moss green and grey;

A sense of scalpel and pin
Crouches down and crawls;

Silence within.

Tapping of the foots -
Envy of oozing as if tree-roots.

Raindrops except the rain;
Audience except individuals.

Circular and square. And a little glimmer
Of peace -
Or agony.

Cool beneath the waters. A small touch
Of green -
Or sunny coral.

Clanking in mine ears -
But beauty in these eyes -
Through cornea and through
…Retina.

A painfully perfect tube is drilled - the long days
Pierced as if a sharp stare of a swordfish
Glare.

And a breath-taking fibre passes through the
Scar…and the blood covered by a glistening
Price sign.

When might it have started? When did this whole thing start?
‘Beginning’ is too hard a concept, it is too natural a word,
It is too common a daily lifestyle that too many cross over it like
Butterflies in the midst of summer, like little waves in a pond of
Lily leaves.

Do you know how a leaf falls for Winter? Do you know something
Just similar to abscission in plants? Do you know how the clouds
Say ‘Hi’ to their neighbours?

Right now, the leaves are not fallen. The wind blows. And the leaf
Shakes. The leaf is tense. The leaf cannot see. It is a bit chilly.

So I would like to open what is a heart and what is an eye. Have
A light radiate through a slit, and warm the room and chambers
Inside.

Ideality; the quality of being ideal.
That’s what I mean when I say ‘My heart
Resonates with gentle colours of feathers while
My eye is cautious of twigs with thorns and twigs
With small glints of flames on the tips of their fingers.

Once or twice, I step and skip on stepping stones
And thrice or quartz, the rocks swim gently in my ears.
Three times at night, they whisper, “Are you living up to the
Ideal?”, and twice every Autumn chair, they sleep and
Diffuse their tiny scents and speckles of crumbs
Outside my bedroom, and outside the red front door.’

Did you know?

Secrets are like the baby grass on the patch of
Grass next door; they flutter like the wings in the
Small breeze of late Autumn.

They glitter like the sand on the beach under the
Aurora last night; and they sleep like fairies under
Small mushrooms in the hidden forest.

If only you knew…

How many secret bookmarks were filed in my book,
And how many degraded, teared apart and
Fluttered away in the wind.

Ring, ring, ringing a bell
And singing towards the sound of crystals.
Too cold for a moonlight shine;
Too hot for a feast’s flame;
However just right it is, how softly
It sits and waddles its paws,
Little sundrops flop over the delicate
Leaves of colourful imagination.
A comfortably scorched piece and
To be seen tomorrow, see you next time.

Vibrant swordfish and
Tension that swells with time,
A cup full of ice.