Scribbles and Strokes

They don't know the way of the world, these children. They smash their feet inside the glass slipper, Trying to become the princess, and wail. "Momma," they cry, "call the prince to me." Let them have their shrill hopes up, oh, For, those cherubims, little do they know, They'll never come for you, little glass shoe. Hush, child, what delusion is this? Do you not know that this love is not yours? It hangs above you like Eve's fruit, As red as your passion. But with Tantalus's reach, For gone are the days of godmother fairies Of midnight love and first sights. They'll never come for you, little glass shoe. So hack away, babe, make your foot bleed Your face will turn pale, but still that pasty smile Shall stay, as you dream of your Charming's face, Until you know, that his Grace Walks the garden with his true love. She doesn't need the slipper. Still you put on your impostor form, do you? But they'll never come for

The clock wants to say that it's way past midnight. The street is empty and silent; the dogs howl, sometimes, on their own. I wonder what they want to say, if anything at all. I am alone in my bed, calling for sleep and still living in denial. She sings madness to me. Her words are tuneless, like the staccato rhythm of nervous speech. But she is intoxicating, like the sweet pull of hemlock; her voice flows all over me, like the slow draw of honey. I do not understand her. What does she mean to say? I wonder when she stuck her head in the oven, looking for heaven, that day, had she been wild haired? Had she painted her lips that morning? What colours had the curtains been? The God she sought must have been cruel to keep her hanging, like a marionette snipping at her own strings helplessly, uselessly. But she is long gone now, you know it. Or is she? For her words I do not understand, but her rhyme weaves like colours all spiralling into black, all around me; the lines echo t

It rained all night. You closed your eyes and leaned back, Pressed your palm against the damp, cold glass Of the rain-stained window, and hummed That old tune which you had said you'd forgotten. Could you see the paper boats, I wonder? That had been pushed in the overflowing alley Made of paper which carried a thousand letters And unspoken words. The ink would melt away, you know, And no one would ever be any wiser Of the shaky hands which made them, Or the fingers which gently set them afloat. Don't crush them with your foot tomorrow morning, Will you? — As you try to save your trousers from the mud — They will probably be upside down, or shrunken. But don't crush them. Who knows, One of these, could have been for you? Fitted with a little lantern in the dark, It could have floated around — Who knows, one could have been from me? No one would ever be any wiser. You know, ages and ages hence, The rain will still come down Each night, every night, e

'Innocence' Medium: Charcoal

'Hello, Darkness, my old friend.' - A pen sketch in a lonely moment.

I loved you in October. The trees were dry on their branches and so were we, in the little specks of humour scattered between us. People decked themselves up for Halloween and I did too, with wispy dreams of fireplaces, snow-clad villages and old books that smelt of comfort. Time sailed its paper planes in the air and I watched, watched as you soared and soared on them, higher and higher. I dreamt in November. It was a month of winter's tentative entry, unlike the proud march which it had discarded in defeat to warmth so many years ago. You were still high above, and I was too, but lost in fantasies, of wooden cabins in lonely forests and whispered conversations. The chill evaded my touch, just like you, both free spirits, destined for greatness. I closed my eyes and longed for both. The winter for its cold, and you for warmth. The irony of it all mocked me through my wardrobe of winter wear. I prayed in December, when the lights lit up the city and even the winter's white c