As she sits on the veranda, the chirping of the crickets and the cool breeze complementing the fragrance of the flowers in the garden, doesn’t usher in eventide, no, she waits at the end of her make-believe aisle for his roses, as red as the bruises and welts on her skin, hoping they’ll mean something […]Read more "Survival"
I spent years disgruntled like a weary Ufologist pitching his tent in the desert and looking through a telescope for signs and symbols, like a first-grader attempting to play Liszt until time broke me like lightning tears a telephone pole, now, aged with regret caressing my face with her fingers like the first five syllables […]Read more "Recovery"
I Gaia once ruled here, using her aesthetic hand to paint mesmerizing forests inhabited by wood nymphs, fierce creatures, and ethereal songbirds who ushered in the morning with their sweet songs, but Industry usurped Gaia; slaughtering her using his strongmen, and brought in the age of nihilism, making his seers say, “God is dead, and […]Read more "We"
When we said, “For better or for worse,” some dewy-eyed part of us hypothesized a forever walk under a purple flowered tunnel, through sickness or fortune, seamlessly walking to the sweetest song, hand in hand, laughing or smiling, kissing or just thinking of each other. But as the years rolled by, some wistful reverie made […]Read more "When the heart’s gone"
When we transcended temporality and spatiality and the grandfather clock became a relic housed in an anachronistic three-dimensional space we created and called a museum, we placed ourselves in the age of the martyrs of heritage and watched them, though they didn’t see us, the laws of physics that held them didn’t apply to us, […]Read more "Utopia"
Walking past these headstones, in this churchyard, I kneel, look back at the little Presbyterian prayer hall you used to frequent, pristine white, with blue-cushioned pews, its simple beige altar, grey steeple, little cross, and a miasma of nostalgia seems rise from the architecture, slowly creeping towards me, the twilight complementing it. I read your […]Read more "For Alisha"
You said, there is no meaning and yet, man hunts for it like Sisyphus rolling a boulder up a hill, now, in hellfire’s agony which is worse than any torture device man conjured up: the Sicilian Bull which wove a sonata of shrieks to the despot’s ear, the Crocodile Shears which chomped on sausages in […]Read more "The death of Sisyphus"