Shadows uncast

These roots run underground.

Dark and bound.

Deep and Wound.

Under the fretful sea,

Of both you and me-

And our wayward philosophy.


These roots have veins;

Veins lined with unencumbered histories.

These roots have rivers;

Rivers that end in your mysteries.


Yet these roots;

They wither and make no sound-

With backs hunched like a mound,

When forced into our calloused dives-

Where no essence is to be found.

And we? We are simply the hound,

Cankering their hallowed ground.


We can shape them,

Twist them and mould them.

We can harness the beauty of patience-

And see it in their form.


Instead we make them mourn.


Make them look up to an empty sky.

Empty of their sisters-

For whom they searched for

And found nothing more –

Than a listless breeze,

Blowing at a phantom core.


How would you like to be-


Immovable in your past-

No shadow of yours to be cast,

Slowly starving from the unrelenting fast.

Forced to see –

Leaves not coming into green,

Losing their sheen.

While you lay…

Forever unseen?


Centuries of secrets they may keep;

And yes they may weep-

But don’t you be fooled-

Because these roots-

Ha-ha these roots run deep.

The Flame Tree

As I grew concealed by the raiment of a flame tree,

The slant of dawn’s light never seemed to catch me;

Shivering warmth’s fleet was my rule amid a worn hollow

With only refracted gleams teased through her leaves to follow.


Once, she blossomed the will of crimson among stoic sheen.

Once, limbs unfurled, stretching keen to bear light in her green.

Once, this light focused sharp through a drop of morning dew

to sign a faint pin burn reamed slow, finely twisting her hue.


Decadence seemed shy to scar until embedded in her rings

that circled into my nursing ply as I sat under leafed awnings

Venturing afraid along her threadbare limbs, willing her to bud

solely to find that only to distant winds her blanched veins flood.


Torn I now stand at the split of her last two crisped leaves

With this light singeing liquid innocence till I burn with truth:

A sickle shade unwittingly charred away the pith of my youth.

Will regret limit desire to the cindered flame tree’s sleuth?

Night Fox



There’s a furtive current bending my will,

Perched in nonchalance as night slowly cowers;

The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.


My Thoughts are lost on memory’s lone hill,

Echoed solemn through the fed drip of hours;

There’s a furtive current bending my will.


This hollow thirst, this thirst I can’t fulfill

Flakes mottled in her night of ours;

The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.


Glimpsed the tail: a splayed thread to unravel twill

Or the crimson shadow presaged by scours;

There’s a furtive current bending my will.


The tussle segues to the dull groan of a beaten thrill-

Caressed oblique in each poignant bead of nightly showers;

The turquoise fox slips by my windowsill.


Cold’s messenger hummed a frost to glass’s chill,

Eyes strain a fear for the secret lost before it flowers.

There’s a furtive current bending my will.

The turquoise fox still slips by my windowsill.