veiled days

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com
We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

Souls almost blurred
by shy, dry tears
fears hinted in those
faces—dark and 
p a l e 

Oppressive times,
so stark and fearful,
Venetian masks
silencing those worry
t a l e s

We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

What face we’d find
under such attires—
question harassing our
snotty brains, those
d a y s 

We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

Oppressive times,
so stark and fearful,
there was only so much
hope to fight those
w a i l s

Momentum for change
Lost opportunity? —
We’d never wish  
for those sad days to
s t a y

We used to dream
of brighter futures,
features concealed
by demure 
v e i l s

What face we’d find
under such attires—
colourful masks
silencing our worried
faces—dark and 
p a l e

free falling

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
night of the monsters
land of the ghosts
fighting the dragons—
all the night hosts

flight or 
free-falling
at dusk—
such dark ride

wild and
sky diving—
a spiralling 
mind

night of the monsters
land of the ghosts
fight of the dragons—
by rugged coasts

flight or 
free-falling—
the sound of 
false tunes

those wicked 
noises,
all the sky
croons

play to deaf ears
through all glossy trails—
flight or free-falling,
smokey travails

night of the monsters
land of the ghosts
fighting the dragons
in nightmares they boast

flight or 
free-falling
at night—
such dark ride

all but 
divining—
a spiralling
mind

inside she’s smiling

Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com
cold-blooded smile
and somber cues
you think 
you laugh —
but 
inside she’s
s   m   i   l   i   n   g

her fingers now
holding her
serpent brush —
as she dyes 
new days
with ocher
embracing
l   a   y   e   r   s

black stilettos found 
in her long-forgotten 
chest of time
nearly crying out —
barefoot days
a   r   e     o   v   e   r

while her canvas, 
fair
sets those

h

e

e

l

s 

alight,
cold-blooded
s m i l e —
stomping feet 
through
p    l    i    g    h    t 

her fingers, now,
firmly hold
the brush—
as she paints
new days
with ocher
embracing
l   a   y   e   r   s

high-heeled,
great 
shine,
warm-blooded,
s   l   i   g   h   t  ,

you think 
she cries —
but, 
inside,
s h e ’ s
s    m    i    l    i    n    g

ghosts & mirrors

Photo by Dids on Pexels.com
i tried too hard
to catch a glimpse
of your soul
on your 
fragile
m i r r o r

the one 
I forgot to clean
when I got
home
really late at
n i g h t

falling asleep
while fighting 
ghosts I’d only
heard about, 
not even quite,
i m a g i ne d

for they
never
really existed,
all but a fake reflection
of your silent,
deadly,
maddened,
b i t e

tambourine

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
D
    r      D
      u       r
    m            u
                       m ,

little women's army
splatter walls—
dressed in
war face
p     a     i     n    t
                        
magic hands
can turn out
wonders, 
now they're sleeping—
shan't be
awoken
y     e     t

close 
the shutters,
no light 
streaming—
they deserve
a darkened
dreaming
b     e     d

D
    r      D
      u       r
    m            u
                       m ,

little women's army—
splatter walls
dressed in
war face
p    a    i    n    t

collector’s bird

Photo by Raphael Brasileiro on Pexels.com
you plucked
out
too many
of my
cyan-tinted
f e a t h e r s

while 
modelling
me into a
stuffed 
poetic
b i r d

wings
got too
heavy with
your lyrically
infused
f e a r s

so i couldn’t 
fly away
from your
collector’s
palace—
y e t

until tonight—
when i 
slide out
of this darkened 
room of
n i g h t m a r e s

leaving you behind,
sleeping,
in your
tortuous,
silent,

o d d
   r  h  y  m  e  d 
 b        e        d

literary glimpses

Photo by Elina Krima on Pexels.com
those true
identities
w e  c a m e  t o
i   n   h   a   b   i   t

yet only
lived
i n  l i t e r a r y
w   o   r   l   d   s

unwritten
stories
of our 
t r u e 
d   e   s   i   r   e   s

in rhyme
embellished
nice pace,
s w i f t
w   o   r   d   s 

identity-
empty
f i c t i o n a l ,
i   m   a   g   i   n   e   d

lyrically
beautiful,
ghostly,
s a v a g e d ,
f   o   r   c   e   d

those true
identities
w e  c a m e  t o
i   n   h   a   b   i   t

yet only
glimpsed
through
d  a  r  k
t   h   i   c   k
s    m     o     k    e    

dark smoke verse

Photo by Aldiyar Seitkassymov on Pexels.com
Smoking 
French 
     poetry whore 
cigarettes
o n e,  
         a f t e r  
       t h e  
o t h e r

i wet my lips,
i puff—
frail
particles of
d i f f u s e d 
s   m   o   k   e

                                 S
                    d                       u

               n            m    e            r 

                    u                        r 
                                 o
       
i bat my eyelids,
i stare away.
and puff—
o n e 
        a f t e r 
    t h e 
o t h e r

still no
words, yet
i perceive
some 
d a r k 
v e r s e  
s  m  o  k  e

has subtly 
embraced
— p  o  s  s  e  s  s  e  d —
my  f e a t h e r e d
d  r  e  a  m  s
 
and, 
while
i type
a widowed
v e r s e —

for a poem
i may
have dreamed—
but will
never, in ink,
b i r t h

smoking 
French 
     poetry whore 
cigarettes
 o n e,  
         a f t e r  
       t h e  
o t h e r

a drunken 
song
waltzes 
  around
  i n 
      m y 
            h  e  a  d 

                  “they’re not good for you.
              he’s not good for you.
             stop wasting
                     y   o  u  r 
           b      r      e    a   t    h
                     a            w            a            y 

remember—
smoking
      ain’t good
for 
    the 
l i v i n g .”

   i     n      h       a       l       e.
 e       x       h       a       l       e.
s  m  o  k  i  n  g
   o n e , 
        a f t e r 
   t h e 
o t h e r

         a
       subtly
    s o o t h i n g
               d a r k ,
      s  m  o  k  e  d
                v   e   r   s   e

                                 e
                    s                       m

                e           m    e            b 

                    c                        r 
                                 a
       


pink dream

Photo by Evie Shaffer on Pexels.com
she wears 
a pink dress
to hide
her petulant 
d a r k n e s s

turbulently staring
as if she’d been living
the dream and was now
anxiously grasping for
b r e a t h

when she finds out
about reality
she starts
walking the walk—
those platform
s h o e s

the ones that
so very 
silently
hurt her 
slim 
a n k l e s

towering
over his thoughts,
pink-stained,
so very
badly 
e n c l o s e d

In the yet to be
unmasked
confines 
of his
i m a g i n a t i o n