Waking dream

Photo by Hannes Wolf on Unsplash

A day dies. Souls flock
to dreams for salvation.
Crows fly away into the black.

Their caws haunt the sky
long after.
My prayers to no god
in particular often seek
their safe return to their bodies.

I wake up to morning familiars
— grumbling engines,
bodies swaying to the beat
of metro, memory of cozy beds,
a collective yawn big enough to
swallow Monday mornings.

Good morning, love!
Day begins with a chance of purpose.
A crow flies away.
Struck amnesiac by rays
bouncing off glass towers.

I hear something shatter.

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Burning paradise

Bare soles sink
in the dark grey of conscience
like a missing orphan’s trail
gone cold.

Before long
they will be entombed within structures,
some concrete, some that give rise
to multidisciplinary discourses
when they crumble.

When the fires have been stoked enough
by indifference, they will take
what’s left of freedom and set up
mock pyres on watchtowers
and let the smoke
the colour of their choosing
And, then, maybe when the the world
is waking up to the meltdown,
we shall ask ourselves:

Does anything burn
more defiantly than freedom,
more greedily than a furnace,
more searingly than
a rainforest?


Your whispers
dance in

sleepy as snow

and sometimes
like cajoling coffee,
the crammed last-night dreams
Musty drawers
of my mind

with a brimful of sunlight
the dregs
of dried fantasy

Real as a pinch
on my sallow skin
your lips
rubbing my ear. I

cannot make out the words,
just the warm you
circuiting the maze like a seasoned explorer

I wonder
if you’re teasing or simply
cautious of the

of the crows
and trees on