Coffee-Coloured Eyes Dipped in Honey


Running my fingers through your mane, for once you felt someone really call your name. Time decays the years in passing, And although your body fades, his soul still fights on; And that’s what sparkles in eyes like these. Glowing with brilliance earned over many years; piercing deep he had the power to speak, a language I hadn’t known. His eyes were like coffee-coloured almonds dipped in honey; he saw a world through eyes like these, ain’t that funny?

Winning Against A Dream Catcher

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In a lucid dream it stayed entrapped,
Selling dreams on a string my mind unmapped.
Bring me your dreams and the powers it renders to be true,
Hang me by your bedpost and every web within me will catch you.
A circlet ornately adorned, trailing feathers billowing light;
this dream catcher put my nightmares up to a fight.
Awakened am I as the nightmare roared,
I didn’t even have a chance to use my sword.
Enough! You no longer visit my dreams,
Finally a dream catcher that’s on my team!

Clothes In A Line

He left her hanging, so she hung herself on every word he had said. Her mind had been compromised and she couldn’t form sentences in all the jumbled up mess; of the broken words that fell out in the sun with meaning far less. She broke her nail trying to untie the rope, her face displayed what it was to lose all hope. Swallowed some pills and let the night take her out, no one could tell what ’twas all about. A different colour for everyday she bled, crying through florescent lights with signs of dusky red. She could have been a constellation, but left a tangled mess of veins as her consolation. Her fallen grace had nothing lacking, she hung her sins out to dry maybe laughing. On gusty days when sheets are snapping, the clothes line did a harmony of cracking. One stubborn clothes peg stood triumphant on the line as the last sock flies away sublime.

Two Galaxies Mixed Together and Created Spatial Warfare

What would happen if you took two galaxies and mixed them together?

Two galaxies merging and creating a partially blended mix of stars from each galaxy in the process. How stellar is that? It takes a million years for it to happen though.

When you look up at the sky at night, don’t you wonder if love uses the same logic that we named blunder. Stellar things take a million years and he waited for her for two! He wrote an entire book about falling in love with distant constellations and about how he would start with her all his conversations. Mocking his belief for the luminous dust, his heart was blamed for being silly about falling in love with a form of rust. All his writings had one thing in common. They were sad, but not in a way that will make your heart weep; it made you think what’s wrong with this guy, what does he grieve? The greatest tragedy of his love was that it held him to a ransom, for someone who wouldn’t save him even at random. Knowing this broke his heart, one thousand thousand chips more than the bursts of the galaxies in parts. And he used every shard he had to rip open anyone who tried to love him again. That’s the trouble with the ‘Big Bang’, we never saw when one universe started by ending another. There’s always a storm of rupture creating cosmic dust so he avoided the bruises that love cast upon him and started the warfare.

In the afterglow of the ‘Big Bang’, gravitational waves and magnetic theories, she showed up to each one of the wars and wore the scars as proof like poetry. She showed up. She didn’t get thrown to the space wolves simply to forget that she was an alpha that wrote the omega. And this is why she showed up, to life with him.

Obsession of the Deep Blue Sea


She is becoming more ocean-minded with a constant wave of emotion struggling to stay afloat on land. Beneath the tides and calm of the sea, she wraps countless wrecks with her smile at ease. Love the ocean but frown at the beach, watching the waves persistent at their reach. The radiating sun illuminates the blue with colours of gold, like the big blue sea was only in stories they told. The vastness and depths she kept hidden, like an empty vessel creating her own emotional prison. What is this obsession with the oceans that you sea? Endless, mysterious, scary were synonyms she agreed. But it was the ocean that gave the shapeless skies a purpose to breathe. She is chaotic but wasn’t reckless, she is fickle but wasn’t feckless; she deposited her share of silt with every wave, she found no comfort being a slave. It was in the ocean that she stretched her presence, decompressing the pressure she learnt of her existence. She chases not the sun as the day is put to rest, nor the moon that cradles the stars causing unrest. Deep in the ocean no sun no moon exist, its the calmness that swallowed, how could she resist?

Dead Skeletons of Dead Fish


Burning rust on the horizon I settle on the bottom of the ocean floor,listening to fish folk stories that yearned to taste the blues of the sky. Dead skeletons of a dead fish lay on the shore, done with all the flipping and flopping, he lay there with his mouth open. Like he had begged for the ocean to take him back. But, it didn’t. It didn’t like most do. Do dead fish have a heaven or hell? Do they have a bucket list or some type of story to tell. Or do they end up like a washed up trick choking depths of unseens sights? Did he wonder what the sky tastes like or did get sick from all the salt in the sea life. Did bigger beasts of the seas put him up to a fight, or was he the one to stay far away from their sight. Has he seen the bottom of the ocean in all its glory, or just swam where the bubbles could rise. Did he swim along the great white sharks in circles or has he spoken to ancient eels from different tides? Has he hovered near sea turtles swimming on their backs for millenniums.
What to him was a mystery? A fish out of water, separated by land and sea.

Smearing the Sunset with Your Eyes

Golden sunset glow drips down my skin, slanting the shadows and drifting the blaze of the hot summer gaze. I want to smear the sunset with something other than the orange light, how about I paint it with the colour of your deep brown eyes? Bold on your eyelashes that guard the windows of your soul. Like picket fences caging the wild horses that refuse to be tamed, every time I look into the colours of coffee-roast, I ask for to be named.