Paper Thin

Her hair neatly tied in a bun

That carries all of her thoughts

Which can’t be bothered with right now

For they scare her more than any shaitan could


She would swallow you alive

Or at least have you believe she could

Her jet back eyes

Dead against the burning light


She smiles, and clinks champagne glasses

Eating mussels and caviar

With the very people she wants to shoot through the heart

She smiles, an untrue smile


The people she believes in

Want to use her gender as a weapon 

They don’t believe her to be an equal


Dousing herself in war paint

She cradles her gun like a newborn 

And marches onto the streets

Her skirt, resisting the wind’s advances 


Her beret is tilted

Saluting the sun in it’s upward march

Her smile is crooked

As she loads a magazine into the gun


She turns corners like she turns 

Pages of a book that she’s least 

Interested to read

But feels guilty enough to scrape through


She tip toes to the rendezvous point

And snaps her fingers to the

Beat of the song that’s been stuck in

Her head since last summer


She winks at her comrades

As they slowly fill out the space

Between her

And the message she wants to send


To everyone who had her 

Figured out to be made of the same

Metal as the ones who had 

Come eons before her


Her comrades tie their hair in a bun

And watch her show them three fingers




And then.


Then there was no stopping

The volley of bullets

That made concrete walls

Seem paper thin


The roar of the gun

Silencing any and all lies

Spoken by those despicable people

Promising something out of their control


The air is heavy

With powdery fumes

So they toss their arsenal

And chase their way, underground


Filling the streets with their hysterical laughter


My Hands

My hands

Are stained

By your deep colour


My hands

They burn

From the flames that glow in you


My hands

Are healed

By the foaming waves that twist and turn in your belly


My hands

Are damp

When they slip around on your palms


My hands

Are restless

So they tip toe upon your naked bossom


My hands

They itch

To draw something new upon your canvas


My hands 

Are battered

Fresh against your war torn fists


My hands

Are curious

They ask questions to the answers they think they already know


Your hands

Are open

Patiently spilling out thought after thought 


My hands 

Were forgotten

Discarded like a book that has been read too much


My hands 

Aren’t my hands any anymore

They ceased to bring out the beauty of the moon anymore


My hands 

Have broken their silence

For in the space between us


They have found a new home

Veins of Teal

Once there was a girl

With hair that flowed

Like the teal river of zeelandia


The valley of unrest 

Is where she goes

For the silence is a blessing

And solitude she seeks


The forest calls out to her

Echos words not discernable

To none, save the ones paying heed


She listens, but pays no heed

And spends her travel decrypting

The songs of the forest


For she too wants to dance 

In the moonlight like the flowers

She too wants to shine like the water

Under the gaze of the stars, which lead her on


Her limbs are coated in a sheen of sweat

And dust 

A testament to the distance she’s covered


The valley

Stretches out to the horizon itself

And she gazes over it hungrily

She has arrived


The valley is still

Where time appears to have stopped

And the wind doesn’t thow her tresses into a mess


A pool of water

Its shade deepest of blues

Is where she washes her weary limbs

And tired mind


Her tiny feet

Walk past trees

That seem to move without any sound


Her dusty hands

Clutch rock after rock

In her pursuit to climb 

To the top of the cliff


She arises amongst clouds

And cautiously walks to the edge

Of the highest peak of the valley


A bunch of lillies adorn a rock

Covered in veins of moss

She bends forward, and breathes in deep

And fills her lungs with the scent of ol’ perfume


She sighs


A sigh


Which echos




The valley


Drumming her hands against her thighs

While bobbing her head

She sings softly into the valley

Where no other sound is heard


Once there was a girl

Who sung the songs of the forest

Whose meaning eluded her no more

Litla Dimun

​He tied his boat off and started to climb the cliffs. He knew that no one had lived to tell what was behind the cloud, but still he climbed. His weary limbs, an exhausted soul, an aching heart, and a mountaineer’s backpack were all he had carried. He had smiled at the villager, when he pushed the last of his money onto her hands and bought the boat. He didn’t need money for where he was going. 
Once there was a boy, the ocean was his soul. He searched for someone to tame the storm within. He knew, nay, he believed, nothing would bring him happiness. A new car, a posh condo, an attractive wife?  Was that true happiness or just a shade of it? “If you weren’t happy before you received a thing, you’ll never be happy with it”, he mused. The words he spoke turned into pearls, and plopped onto the ground for being too heavy. Those words didn’t reach his loved ones, so he left. In search of a land that didn’t exist and for an answer to a question he didn’t know. The lands he travelled turned into inky blots, and the people he met turned into dust. Three years since he embarked from home, he found himself in a coastal village in Denmark, partaking in the local dive bar. Dimly lit with candles, he drank deep from his mug. “You don’t seem like you’re from around here,” commented the owner of the bar as he cleaned the mugs with a dirty rag, “Are you here to try your luck with Litla Dimun?”

“Lit-what now?” He slurred, as he wiped the drool off his chin. 

“The island-mountain that every idiotic tourist thinks is worth a visit like the damn Easter island,” said the bar keep whilst shaking his head.

“Island-mountain, eh? What’s so special about it?” He asked, already losing interest.

“Aesthetically, it’s beautiful cause of the cloud that perpetually covers the mountain’s head like a blanket, and only that nobody’s ever been there, and lived to tell about it,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.

He raised his eyes, “whaddya mean? Too steep?” 

The owner laughed, “Maybe, there’s just no way to tell since no bodies have been found. The villagers will have you believe the mountain’s haunted. So many stories have been cooked up about that damn island, I don’t even know what’s true anymore. There’s just one thing I believe, if you make your way to Litla Dimun, either you’re goddamn stupid, or it’s your only option,” he said in all seriousness as he placed the last mug on the stand.

“Well, if I wanted to say something cheesy, I’d say ‘I’m a lil of both’, but I’m not that drunk,” he said as he stifled a yawn and counted out coins for his drinks. He placed them on the counter, thanked the owner, and found himself walking down the lane, flooded with moonlight. The kids flung small pebbles after him, the drunk foreign stranger. He didn’t mind, he was leaving soon anyway.
He stood at the base of Litla Dimun, and exhaled deeply. Surveying the area, he found no evidence of anybody having even ventured there. No ghost of a person’s attempt to make it to the top. Nothing. He wasn’t comfortable with this level of solitude. Is this how his life would turn out to be? A barren beach with no sign of the colourful, tortured life that he had lived? No proof that he walked on this earth? Being a nihilist was something he denied, regularly. His train of thought suggested otherwise.
He began his ascent, and watched the gentle blades of grass bend against the wind’s breeze. The slope was challenging and steep, but nothing lethal. He glanced back, saw his boat rock on the waves, in the distance. The boat looked tiny, and it was a testament to the ground he had covered. The blue ocean, glinted in the sunlight and filled his heart with a pang of longing. He wondered if the villager’s stories were true. He wondered if he’ll ever get to ride the boat back to shore, and tell the villagers his tale. Well, his choice was made, and he sort of knew what lay ahead of him. So he turned, and continued his ascent, with a frown upon his brow.
He chose this life, and not another. He chose a life of loneliness, one where he doesn’t get to rear his own kids. A life where he doesn’t have a companion and luxuries. He chose his life. And he never truly understood this until that very moment. The ascent became too steep to walk, so he tied a rope around his waist, and began climbing. The climb itself was torture for his hands, but he tapped into his adrenaline and found himself at the top. He peered off the cliff, and steadied himself. The air was thinner than he was used to, and the height gave him vertigo. 
A meadow lay in front of him, which led him into the cloud atop this island-mountain. Walking into the cloud wasn’t at all what he thought it would be like. It was damp and cold. He felt eerie. Shapes of ghosts and witches were being imagined by his brain. He walked. He walked, but he was worried he’d walk off the top. After a while of walking, he was convinved he was in the afterlife. This was a portal to reach your end. Was this how he died? By walking into a cloud? Not as grand as he hoped it to be. Before he could scourge the area for angels with harps and halos, he saw a massive towering structure in the distance.
He moved towards it, apprehensively. The shape grew larger as he walked closer. Its size wasn’t fathomable. If he had to venture a guess, he would say it was a tower, or God itself. He found himself at the base of the structure, and saw himself looking at an ancient oak tree. Its spindly branches towering over everything. The knotted trunk thicker than 5 tree trunks. He placed his palm upon the tree, and shivered with goosebumps at the thought of its age. He ran his hand over the trunk, until his fingers chanced upon an engraving. Somebody had mutilated the trunk. He knelt, and read the engraving written in an elegant handwriting:
The Girl Of Litla Dimun

Once there was a girl

Whose eyes burned like embers

In the night

She searched for someone

To fan her flames

Until then

She shines

Brighter than a thousand splendid suns

Holding on to a peice of paper

She waits

He weeped. He sobbed. He howled. 

He sat in front of the tree, cross legged. Tears streaming down his frownless face, he closed his eyes. After a long time, he finally felt the happiness he had been searching for. So he kept his eyes closed. He let the zephyretta tug at his hair, beard and clothes. He didn’t care. His eyes were shut. 
And he waited.

Away Away She Flies

Away away she flies

Atop the ship’s mast

Singing away her sorrow

Her words lost in the wind


Her tears glisten

In the moonlight

Her heart years

For her motherland


Waves crash upon the shore

Bathing the rocks with foam

A gale of wind, from the west

Blows away a young man’s hat


She keeps an eye upon the horizon

A single cloud adorns it

The smell of sea salt,

And fishes fresh


The ship sails away

But she has eyes only for one

She searches but sees naught

She longs for him


Tears adorn her face

Her spirit remains maimed

But her eyes shine brighter

Than any star ever would


Humming deeply

She turns her back against the shore

Her tiny hands, clap softly

To the rhythm of the sea


Away away she flies

Atop the ship’s mast

Singing away her spirit

Her words carried by the wind

A Boy And Her Flute


On top of a hill
A boy plays a flute

Amongst the overgrown plants
His melodies lost to the hungry jungle

Stamping his feet
Making a hypnotic rhythm

His breath quivers
As the day draws to an end

Night comes, a blanket over the hill
The boy plays a lullaby on the flute

Dawn approaches, luminescence
The boy plays to the bird’s chirps

The boy plays the only song he knows
The song she used to hum

The flute his beloved gave him
Carved with her own hands

But she is gone
And his flute keeps him company

Dusk scatters across the sky, again
The boy knows he wont last the night

He plays the flute
His farewell to this life

Witnessing the sunlight mingled with stars
He sheds a tear

As the birds begin to chirp their morning symphonies
And he’s passing into the void

He finally feels the universe in motion around him.