Hope in Hell

There is utter madness on the wind,

Chaos is blooming black and deadly scented flowers.

Despair runs screaming in torn clothes,

Her children crying like banshees,

As unchecked cruelty fills the hours.

Souls bereft of any kindness,

Drag their bleeding feet across thorny ground;

The discarded and the hopeless lie heaped upon a wretched mound.

Eyes that bear no light look sightlessly upon withered fields,

The monster harvesters with their barbaric hands,

Count their bloody yields.

The sky feels heavy and leaden,

A droning dissonance buzzes through my ears.

The world all at once feels like a soundless scream,

And existence, the endless crunching and grinding of weary fears.

Then all at once when it feels like there can be no more,

Some relief is gained from the intruding view;

A small green thing like grows wildly from the ground,

Displaying the impossible hue,

Of some retained hope for what feels like being an exile in a foreign land,

I am grateful for your existence;

A living thing of beauty still grows in the desert’s sand.

Modern Love

Love as a commodity,

A like,

A swipe to the right;

An exchange of sorts,

And important to remember,

Usually a fleeting connection.

It’s the diet-Coke form of love:

It offers you some remembrance about the full-fat taste of love,

Without the necessary calories to sustain,

Or even adequately sweeten one’s life.

It’s the swan -song to meaningful connection.

And the weary moth,

Mistaking electric bulbs for flames,

Still get burnt;

Ignominiously however,

In the search for modern love.

Another Stale Glass of Red Wine

Another stale glass of red wine graces my bedside table.

It stands as testament to the obvious:

You did not bring me anything new.

Sure, when the bottle was first opened, there was a pleasant aroma.

I think when one is thirsty however,

Even cheap red wine can smell like an intoxicating perfume,

And I was thirsty. I readily admit this.

You, however, paraded yourself in more expensive notes, hues and tones, than belong to you.

It was not by the way, an entirely awful seduction,

And when you’re thirsty, even stale red wine will do.

Nightbird songs

The Reluctant Phoenix

Sighs, prayers, tears,
Sighs, prayers, tears,
Sighs, prayers, tears.

I say this three times,
Because these are the sounds of loss,
That crash like waves inside my ears.

My body rolls like driftwood,
Upon the tides of grief,
Vexed thoughts and silent lamentations;
Both mercenaries, employed to be love's thief.

Movement has become limited,
As I shelter in the night's dark womb.
I am tangled in the seaweed of memory;
A corpse bride dancing with her shuffling groom.

Heavy sighs, like smoke that rise,
Into what feels like water or weighted air.
I watch them come to  land again,
Sorrow caught like leaves, in the tangle of my hair.

My hands lie open in supplication,
To the yawning void;
A weary prayer to the impersonal firmament,
To be obliterated or destroyed.

Tears, prayers, sighs,
Tears, prayers, sighs,
Tears, prayers, sighs.

I say this three times,
To nurture…

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The Reluctant Phoenix

Sighs, prayers, tears,
Sighs, prayers, tears,
Sighs, prayers, tears.

I say this three times,
Because these are the sounds of loss,
That crash like waves inside my ears.

My body rolls like driftwood,
Upon the tides of grief,
Vexed thoughts and silent lamentations;
Both mercenaries, employed to be love's thief.

Movement has become limited,
As I shelter in the night's dark womb.
I am tangled in the seaweed of memory;
A corpse bride dancing with her shuffling groom.

Heavy sighs, like smoke that rise,
Into what feels like water or weighted air.
I watch them come to  land again,
Sorrow caught like leaves, in the tangle of my hair.

My hands lie open in supplication,
To the yawning void;
A weary prayer to the impersonal firmament,
To be obliterated or destroyed.

Tears, prayers, sighs,
Tears, prayers, sighs,
Tears, prayers, sighs.

I say this three times,
To nurture the stubborn seed of love,
That whispers relentlessly to me:
You will rise,
You will rise, 
You will rise.

Writing, Poetry and 3am Thoughts

Well, I’ve finally decided to do this thing and jump feet first, just like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. I have no idea where this journey will take me or just quite where I will land but just like Alice, I have a compulsion to explore, play and create- quite often it is late at night.

This all started with a bird that would visit me outside my window at night, singing his little heart out and by way of reply, I would write to him. It was an exchange of sorts and one that set my mind and imagination to wandering. This site is a collection of some of those stories and poems.

Here we go!