i:
Home was a far-fetched dream before you stumbled upon my doors, with a smile plastered on your face
It was then when my heart whispered echoes of sweet honey and soft melodies
A kindle of hope lit in the pits of the darkness inside of me as your voice resonated in a stirring giggle
Your eyes glistened in excitement as you talked about the cosmos and the mystical beings
Superpowers beyond imagination bestowed through the utters in a soul so serene Continue reading
A prolonged shadow creeps behind us in the darkness of reality, leaving us both petrified and mesmerized. Creation of an utter paradox. A simple, rhetorical question that shifts our fundamental and intricate beliefs. One of the world’s greatest desires is simply a mere paradox. For isn’t choice nothing but a preexisting absurdity? Continue reading
Puppets, a Lighter, and Itches for Blood…
Amid the dusk of night, pacing slowly around the corners of the uncanny house was the enigma of the town. Nearly fifty of age, this senile man was the mystery people talked about. His story, or rather his series of stories, was the folk tale that paced around the tongues of the town’s fokes. Solitude was all he ever asked from them ever since he moved into this town, yet Continue reading
Maze
meɪz/
noun: maze; plural noun: mazes
An enigma, a puzzle, a mystery, a riddle, a conundrum, and a paradox. All entwined and all entangled in a thread so familiar to most of us we barley even recognize it anymore. A thread of silk and thorns of prickles of unfortunate events and hysterical quarrels, found embedded in the heart of our volcanos, with lavas erupting the bottled up sentiments. Continue reading
She found herself crippled near the pits of hell
a profound abyss she conjured for herself
a hollow void where oblivion transcends
as melancholy deluges her soul & ascends
losing all forms of hope, she pondered
perhaps to leap through life is to be faltered
the wire was far more worn out either way
and her apathy wasn’t a misnomer but a dismay Continue reading
They used to wake up the sun with gleaming above their heads, promising days of fortune. Now they wake up to glum, grey clouds that tower over their lives, closing in on them. They used to play with flowers, and now they tackle with Russian bullets. They used to play in the streets with colors painting their bleached notebooks. Now they run from collapsed boulevards into nothingness. Their home became a field in which nothing grew but the echoes of anguish, for the soil was unyielding for anything hopeful. They are word-bound. They are helpless. All they can sense is the beacon of death that arose from the weapons. Continue reading
