Self Deceit


I daresay I’ve been tricked into oblivion
My senses betray me, treacherous are the lies they spin
The truth that they’ve kept from me, the truth that shall set me free
Has evaded my detection
An internal dereliction.

My Reality is a shapeshifting monstrosity
An illusion I love to live in
My hope, my oxygen.
Chilling it is to think, from this thought I slink
I’ve been breathing in My End
There is a poisonous paucity
That I couldn’t portend.

Under this burden, I buckle
My feet unsure of where they land
What was positively concrete
Was only fickle sand.

In spite of all I’ve stated
We prefer the mirage we’ve created

Self Deceit

His City


‘To my happy place, wherever and whatever it may be.’

In the dark hours of despair
Before the dawn is in sight
Sits with a trembling quill
In the wane candle light
Page after page furiously he writes

He weaves himself a city
From the yarn of dreams
In ink he paints
It’s layout and scheme
Words come alive it seems
When his notes clash
With the song of life
When he seeks solace
In the world of strife
Tuneless and tired
It is here he retired
Inside the walls of his city
And one day as the morning sun
Will flood his room
And the burnished sunlight
Lift the gloom
He will fade away
Into his city, consumed
His City

A Different Kind Of Warehouse

Sometimes, I wish I had a photographic memory.

This is not conventional poetry. It is a peek into a moment of time. Take one out to read it too.

In pill boxes, in shoe boxes, in silver foil packages, in odd containers, in hidden pockets, I have stored memories. Lovingly cramped in corners, waiting to be fathomed in the wee hours of the morn when the mind endures deep anguish for a lost cause. It is to these I turn, picking up the thousand shards carelessly scattered, desperately clinging to the transience. They rise, only to vanish into thin air, hanging around me in a silvery cloud, a tantalizing sheen it is. I dare not breathe , I stare transfixed into nothingness. I reach out, clasping the unknown. I wield to the fear boiling inside, transferring fistfuls of the gleaming air to a Tupperware jar. I seal it airtight, placing it among the other cherished rejects.

A Different Kind Of Warehouse