Strands of Belief
We pluck fluffy balls of cotton from so many different plants, Having no idea, which would end up in towels, mops, and pants, But every tuft itself, shorn of identity, has no consequence to dread, Caring even less, that many
Stormrider
You wonder why nobody talks anymore about possession, Why this deathly silence on an unacknowledged obsession, About this edifice painstakingly built, built by brick, Ever confident that just another would do the trick. When you spend every day laying the
Call Me Butcher
When outstretched hands reach out for your support, And you routinely ignore them like another status report, If your arms cannot reach to those hanging by strands, Maybe you should consider chop chop chopping your hands. When tired legs try
Someone Like You
I heard from many lives for whom you were the sunshine, And hoped that you could dispel the darkness from mine, Until someone asked me how all your light was spun, And I wondered who was your secret sun. I
Some Say
Some say, that every colour has a special meaning, One that flowers wearing them know not revealing, Some say, colour is an accident in evolution’s learning, One that the eyes perceiving them realise not peering. Some say, that every road