vicious vacuum.

a vicious vacuum
of painted memories and
even older scars adorned his mind.

it was a daily battle,
an hourly war,
a second upon second struggle
of the mind against its most dangerous contender,
the heart.

the past never too far behind
the present,
beating the hopeful future
to a pulp with every step forward
and too many backwards.

he was lonely,
trapped in nothing more than images
and words
spewing from his mouth
before reality ever had a chance to keep up.

but reality did come,
it came after the fall
each and every time,
and it left him with too much to repair
and nothing more to to salvage.

except perhaps
tomorrow,
because he knew
there may be a new day.

there will be,
won’t there.

but,
a vicious vacuum
of painted memories and
even older scars adorned his mind.

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Happy New Year

traditions
are so much
more
than simple
rituals of execution.

they are alive
spirits and
ghosts,
present
and past
keeping us grounded
and chained.

reminding us
to give thanks,
to remember
never taking for granted
a single thing.
to hold our heads high
to love unconditionally
to dance and drink
and be merry –
here and now.

the lights,
the noise,
the sparkle,
the magic,
a night to celebrate the old
and embrace the new –
the upcoming adventure of the unknown
in this new year.

family,
friends,
may 2019 be a good one.

on the metro

I felt him long before
I saw him.
but suddenly
there he was
with his shabby black hat,
and many day old beard,
with kind eyes
and wrinkled hands.

together we walked
underground,
through passages of
passages of halls
of halls of entryways
and exits,
passed others like him
and like me.

Up and down
we went with those endless
seeming staircases –
mechanical or otherwise,
me and my companion,
never speaking,
never looking,
just moving along
with the crowd.

He hopped on the same
vessel as me,
a modern mining cart,
shipping souls through
the monotony that seemed
to be life;
all trapped in its metal cage
dreams, hopes, fears and all —
stifling, but
breathing.

And then somewhere
between Bobigny and Place d’Italie
he left,
and I continued forward.

choices.

life as
it is,
is not in
our hands.

we are merely
passengers,
choosing our
destination,

but never
in control
of our destiny.

the seagulls cried.

the seagulls
cried on the day
her ship set
sail to
foreign lands.

he leaned
towards her one
last time and
said to her,
with pleading hands,

“return to me,
my darling love –
no matter how long it
may take.
I’ll be waiting for
you at the port,
even if my heart may
ache.”

the seagulls
cried each day and
night, as he
stood on the withering
docks, his ageing fingers
gripping the once
glittering rock.

but as dusk turned
to dawn and dawn
rose to dusk,
he realised that all that
remained was
his sweetheart’s
one lock.

the seagulls
cried pitifully on
the eve that he died,
their friend had gone
suddenly, without
seeing his bride.

by morning,
a ship
sailed straight into port,
onboard was a
maiden in search
of her lord.

the seagulls
cried.

moving forward.

the birds
will beat their
wings,
and struggle forward,
even when the
wind tries
to push them
further away.

at an arm’s-length.

if you
spend all your
life
keeping everyone
at an arm’s-length,
you’ll never
experience the
magic
of being
loved,
appreciated,
cherished
and understood.