Tuesday, July 26, 2011


He itches to write
For in the days of yore
Redemption had come this way
But the battle within drains him
And his words live as stones

He had walked this way
He knows the marks, old footsteps
The caked path, rotting twigs
This path ends soon the winds whisper
But the bogs grow thicker with each step

These are the days of blue
Sunken eyes, unshaven sideburns
Of drifting in the wilderness
Of hollow and guttural laughter, then nauseating bitterness
These are the days of shrouded pain

His soul burns as the life in him shrinks
Life is lived in gusts and busts
Pleasure lives as phantoms, as she
In a slumber
He ne’er wakes from.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Keeping it to yourself

I was restless last night. Normally, I would turn to the small SW Radio I keep by the side of the pillow or tune into al Jazeera or Euronews on the TV, but it seems like none of them was ready to provide the emergency respite i so needed.I was just restless... tick tock tick... 2 a.m. still no sleep. Panic sets in; I really have to leave home before six.

Then I thought, she shouldn't have told me that... she shouldn't have.

But it's been 3 years now, and I have 'forgiven'...

I turned, sighed and made another futile attempt at getting some sleep...