This is an ode to unbeautiful things, like monarchs once bottled in flight, as we called what we did preservation while its spiracles struggled to fight. This is an ode to unbeautiful things, like hermits once kicked from their land as we called what they ran from outdated and constructed our cities on sand. This…
Category: writing
No One Asks About Blue
It’s assumed that of all of the colours, Blue’s the most misunderstood, for where Yellow is mellow and Green is serene, Blue is the absence of ‘good’. To some, Blue’s a feeling of sadness, hence why they say, ‘playing the blues’, but imagine what colours I’d sing of, if you spent one day in my…
The Incredulity of Saint Thomas
It began with a tree and a garden in the palm of an ardent Creator, who gifted the world salvation, before man had recognized his fall. Beauty among us. Truth before us. And in a moment, paradise lost. Until the hour, when upon a cross made of uprooted garden, He became the atonement for our…
Untitled
There’s a nail on the wall -tilted and pocked above some half-chalked sketch of a man paying no mind to the chrysanthemums. He, who makes no fuss about the lights being on or off, stills in the room that studies his window, and welcomes us with the same worn-out expression we oblige. Out of formality…
Study Break
Based on Frederick Judd Waugh’s ‘The Setting Sun’. Study Break Who can write a poem when they’re about to crash or as inlet eyes lull the act of fishing for words to sleep? The motions we keep with the tide, next to the stickered-up steno with its wide mouth agape and its blue lines bobbing…
L’Arlésienne
I gaze upon the Madame so long as admiration permits, hoping by a small chance, she may take note of my heart-like hands and steady the beating of my banal brush. This mystery, who mutes my madness and tames the tenebrific chuckles of a feverish mind. Imagine how richly I could paint the heavens, if…
The Poet (Blood From a Turnip)
The tip of the felt, to capture a feeling in passing, is bound to a page in pursuit of its bind. Here, the willows once plucked are given new leaves as their roots bear fruit in a silent soil, One that puts their toil to labor of a different kind. One where the mind which…
Right Handed Rhymer 
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