Castles and Shells

He was a child,

He toddled down the shore,

Throwing fits of mirth,

Picking up seashells.

As he ran with dismay,

From one alluring shell

To another,

He fluttered his arms fast,

Tossing around the shells in his palms,

And trampled past them.


She was a girl,

Who limped after a dream,

Where she was still a child.

She sat on the shore,

Searching for a soul,

Whom she could run to

And show her wounds,

When they stung and the blood gushed out;

Who would kiss them to heal,

Each and every time.


But he was a child,

Who built castles that shine,

Adorned them with shells,

And mangled them down,

Once he got bored.


The Box of Souvenirs

I thought,

If I gave back all those,

Gave away the little things,

That I held on to,

The little things that reminded me,

Of a time that engulfs hope,

A time, I’m reluctant to let go of,

A time, that still keeps me warm,

Amidst the tempests in my mind,


I thought,

If I gave back all those,

The tokens, I held on to, greedily,

The favors, the kindness, in a box,

If I gave them back to the owner,

That I would be returning

The memories that still keep me up,

That storms my mind,

In the ungodly hours.


Yet last night,

As I woke up to triumph,

Over the room, I’ve chased you away from,

Over a world that was mine alone;

To still find you here…

You were not in the box of souvenirs;

Or the memories, defaced and fading;

You are here,

Wherever I am.


If what we were,

Was only a “few dates”

For you,

Fine, run along,

To your safe cradle,

Lulled by the girls,

You call “sisters”.

Just leave me be, lying,

In the now threadbare hammock,

That was “us”,

But still is life,

To me.


Oh, how you move on,

Like a duck waddling in a pond,

Wobbling your tail for attention,

A bit too pompous,

A bit too endearing,

Round your little pond,

And again past me,

As I sit, in the bank, waiting.


Some days you look,

Without turning your head,

You nod and glide on,

With your grandiose airs.

Some days you swim past,

Without a sidelong glance,

Some days you stop,

And ask me why I won’t move on.


I smile as you wiggle off,

The water in your white feathers,

As you peep around rocks,

Peekaboo-ing with fish,

As you glide around with the pelicans,

Feigning self-importance.

Who would admire your wiggling back,

If I moved on too?


L’homme fatal

His eyes gleam,
Like stars shining on the waters
Of the “heart of darkness”,
They succumb you,
Into a blinding abyss.

His touch flares,
Like colliding planets,
The rush, the fall,
The bliss of the dancing lights,
The ignition behind the scars.

His charm enraptures,
Like a snowfall
On a summer’s day,
The first rain after eons of drought,
Pacific. Acidic.

He’d shower you with stardust,
Paint you auroras,
Build you a radiant bubble,
Blow with his soft breath,
And watch as you float.

Mid-flight you’ll open your eyes,
To the fading shades of light,
The chilly windstorms swirling you.
The clock has struck midnight.
He wasn’t here to stay.

He’d be the mountain you stand on,
As you watch the twilight skies,
He’d tell you you have wings,
Show you how to flap them,
Woot as you fly, your very first inch.

He’d become the blind-spot in your eyes,
The wrist clutching your windpipe,
The chains pulling you down,
The screech in your ears,
The volcano inside of you.

And in a dark lonely night,
He’d drive you to a dagger’s end,
As the maelstrom of your thoughts
Rave against your heaving breath.


I struggle;
A fly trapped,
In an intricate, silvery web.

I embrace;
The sticky silk,
Engrossing me, tying me down.

I await;
To be devoured,
To my last living thought.

But I realize;
I am entrapped,
In a cobweb, long forsaken.