warm at night 

we might have burned out too quick 

but the ashes left from our fire 

still keep me warm at night 


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images

a child’s begging bowl

a burning house 

..it’s these little flickers…


these little flames that light up 

on the distant horizon… 

you always see them 

out of the corner of the eye 

rekindling lost ambitions

rekindling the memories of passion 

with lost lovers 


these little flickers

never die

they live with us

they grow old with us

and sometimes 

they even play hide and seek 

with us


most times at night 

we intimate with ourselves 

conjuring up tears that never leave the eyes 

nurturing timid smiles

that never reach the eyes… 


such is life 

and it always seems understandable

yet unfair sometimes 

that no matter how hard

we try to forget, 

some images 

stay with us 

forever 



a child’s begging bowl 

a burning

house… 



Poetry 

Our lips finally parted 

And I could hear her gasp for air

After the passionate kissing. 

She looked upwards, at the stars 

And softly said, 

‘The stars are always shining 

Whether we see them or not. 

And even on the cloudy days

When we can’t see shit,

They continue shining.

Why do you think that is so?’


I kissed her lightly on the cheek 

And whispered in her ear,

‘I don’t know.’


‘Well, that’s the problem’, she said. 

‘We always want to understand and describe

 The things we don’t know

Because we think that if we knew 

It would somehow make us feel better. 

-But it doesn’t 

It only kills the poetry.’


I stared deeply into her eyes 

And all I could see

Were the shining constellations;

Stars upon stars…

I guess I looked confused by her words. 

She smiled and I kissed her again..

 

I didn’t wanna kill the poetry. 

graffiti 

the woman is kneeling 

facing the man who stands 

half bent, looking upwards

hands behind her head


i instantly understand his euphoria 

and it’s blasphemously funny 

to even think about it… 


this masterpiece 

is just outside 

the church wall

the glass

the glass slips from the hand

and a momentary silence ensues

followed by a sharp, hollow noise

as the glass shatters

into a thousand tiny pieces 


glass returns to sand- its mother-

and the noise dies down to silence 

again

but the sleeping baby

breaks into a loud, frightened wail


-entropy always wins