Untitled thoughts shaped into words by the wind.

Let these lovely fields surround me tonight
where the wind effaces all my sorrows
and the clouds tell me that everything changes
that everything is worth living for
stories weaved in intricate panels
piano, drum, bass, drum, crescendo, repeat
the scent of paper as cultures collide
the hugs on a warm night
the dazzling, gaudy lights outside
the invariant abstractions
which funnily form a froth of insight
and all things constant – the universe
and when years have gone by
maybe, maybe you.
But the clouds solemnly tell me that everything changes
maybe, maybe even you
but everything is worth living for
and holding on to.

Time is merely a passerby.

Time is merely a passerby
it watches as we diverge
or converge into and onto people
How poignant to think
that we won’t be the same
in the years to come
and weren’t in the ones gone by.
They tell me to look forward
and not worry about the ghosts
but how much I would love
to just stand there
at reflect on the summation and superposition
of life, universe and everything.

The Traveller.

Once upon a time
there was a traveller
whose feet were shackled
to a wooden pole on a dock
and an anchor tied to his waist
and everyday he’d watch the ships
depart for places, destinations and journeys
Vietnam, Jamaica, Cuba and Chile et al.
Eventually he fell in love with the dock
the bustle of the morning
the brawny sailors and their promised
who’d sometimes bid farewell
and the opposite too
the occasional storms
and the hush that followed when
one day that body came floating by
and the intricacies of the construction he now saw
and the lighthouse that was a wonder of the world
at night, especially at night
he fell in love with the beauty of it all
he wanted to live his life out here now
and one day his eyes wandered down
and didn’t find the shackles and the anchor.

I melt into a knife.

melt into a sharp knife
and stab in the dark
And I am a self conscious knife
and undoubtedly questions emerge
is there a purpose to my life?
sitting pretty in the cutlery
or be driven through a heart
the pulp of tomatoes
or haemoglobin?
the red is washed off in the sink
the red dries off after a while
and isn’t nearly as exciting
I have thought and thought
and I guess both get monotonous after a while.

Leaves Painted on the Road.

I am perched on the bed
and propped against the window,
my eyes fixated on the view outside:
leaves painted into a beautiful
pattern on roads by the breeze
that cradles the trees to slumber
on a cloudless spring night
and gently illuminated by the streetlights
which have entered into a
playful conspiracy with nature
conversing through the whispers
of the breeze – in all likeliness;
these are the sceneries the sights
of which imprint themselves in the mind
the folds of the brain, figuratively speaking
where they’d reside, but not juxtaposed
with thousand countless simplicities
and form an abstract stained glass mosaic.