Twinkling Eyes (Haiku)

Fireworks in the sky

All pale in comparison

To her twinkling eyes


The Room


Hot air rises,
Cold air sinks,

Teeths tend to chatter,
And eyes start to blink.


A darkness flashes,
And shadows play
With each other upon
Walls and
And laptops.

Mosquitos bite,
My quick hand slaps.

I hope I missed
“It flew away in time, perhaps?”

She rubs her hands
And sinks her teeth
Into soft, tender flesh,
Sucking deep
Biting more
Bumpy roads
Leading her to shore.

Putrid smoke rises,
Grey ash sinks

Into a bottomless pit
Of bad decisions
Guilt, unquenchable.
Sleepless and
And bored.

My eyelids open
And slowly shut,

I beg my mind for a dream
A deal with me, it cuts.
Sleep of no dreaming, no more,
But twisted,

Dreams are dreams. You made a deal.

The sun rises
The room sinks

The kitchen, the bed, the
Bathroom, I’m on the brink
Of running, and running, and running
Of it behind.

I think I can outrun it, until..

Again, I see the darkness rise
And feel my heart sink

Synchronous Bloom

​Your body

Is my pilgrimage 

Of worship


A place

Where my hands reach to

Offer absolutions


I use my silvery tongue

To get you around the bend

And tell you that your flesh 


Blesses mine, with a stain

That’s more than just skin deep


So I press my heart against yours

Waiting for the two drums

To beat as one


I press my mouth against yours

And eat the words 

That died upon your lips


My mouth traces

Every inch of your skin and bones

Until my hunger is satiated


A sliver of the midnight moon

Bathes us while we

Tangle ourselves deeper into one another


Every heavy breath, a sonnet

Every bite, an ode

Every moan, those three tired words


The air is heavy

With the scent of old perfume

While our two bodies talk


The burden on my hands, absolves

The stars in the sky, dissolves

And the argument our bodies have, resolves

As we bloom synchronously

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