UNSPOKEN
She filled her body with venom, the worst kind. The kind that forms in the crevices of thought. The kind that lurks behind the forced smile and the swallowed word.
And so she began to putrefy, pickling from within. For unspoken words are more acidic than spoken ones.
LET HIM GO
My story was a short one… I let him go only to discover that he had built me the universe.
Every shred of my reality exquisitely crafted by this imagination… I only existed as he had dreamed.
And when I let him go, I disappeared too.
lean in
She lived in the shadows, Around corners, She lived in the shadows because her shine would have blinded all.
rear window
Encased in a swirl of chaos, Life hustled and bustled by. Death, they say, comes quietly...In whispers and shadows.
ode to the reaper
From wood burst flame, from flame grew ash.
This is the cycle of all things that come to be.
The moment the spark of life was ignited,
its dark twin was born too.
A gift beyond all gifts.
For without this silent companion,
I would not wonder, love or hope.
Every step, every breath, every beat,
would pass me by unseen.
THE PURPOSE OF LIFE
Is it love - which eludes all seekers, only to be found when the search is over?
Is it hope - that ember that when all is ash, burns still, consuming itself,
but glowing valiantly on?
Is it the stories - that we become in the lives of our children
and our children’s children?
Or maybe it’s just the bittersweet joy of the ride, of getting to write
your own story without ever discovering the ending...
IF
If I weren’t a cat I’d be a book. An interesting book, full of adventure and spirit.
A book with a crinkled spine and folded pages... Read and re-read because I’m just so delicious.
If I weren’t a cat I’d definitely be a book.
summer haiku
Summer’s sleepy snooze,
brings dreams of solitude where
even birds must rest.
shadowplay
Sunshine on my belly and the wind kissing my paws
I watch as the leaves sway hypnotically lulling me to sleep
The consistent pitter-patter of the humans in the other room
It must be caturday, my favourite day of the week
writers block
Today I just write a few words here and there; it’s been so quiet here, in this space – like a tiny island in my mind that has long been deserted.
A lonely tree is all that remains, a ghostly memory that life is still possible, even in this silence.
In other parts, the mind is filled with the hustle and bustle of the mundane and ordinary. It’s easier to reside in these corners where busyness is business.
But in the moments of stillness, the moments between moments – the tree stirs and beckons, emboldened if you listen - it whispers, “tell my story, tell my story…”
smokers paradise
Smoke that last cigarette, notice the wisp of smoke as it passes through your lips and curls dreamily around your fingers.
Lie back look at the stars, theirs is a journey far greater than yours. They have travelled long and far to be here with you at this moment, on this day
of dragons and daffodils
Dragons breathe fire, talons ablaze, like hot radioactive comets through the sky.
Dragons breathe fire so that daffodils can be allowed to live gently in the sunshine
