I Think of Summer

I think of summer
as autumn moves away
opening the doors to winter.

Strong gust of November winds
blow past my shell
ripping apart my safe house
just at the start of the cold.

Summer has ended,
a season gone
but work still remains to be done.

I’ve been lazy
dancing under the sun,
now I’ll shiver and run
at the sight of the beacon,
nature’s sign of change.

I think of summer,
but summer’s gone.
I think of the next summer.

I will always think of summer.

Space

If you were an artist

and I was an object,

what space would I

occupy in your canvas?

Would I be a fruit on the table

or a shadow beneath?

Or the painting inside the painting

or the floor spread all across?

Would you care

to splash your paint

and make space for me?

A Blank Page To Lie | Poetry

The blank page is the enemy.
The blankness is to defeat.

But what would you do
if you couldn’t escape even
your own piece of paper?

If you couldn’t even be
true to words,
when they begin to tell lies.

What would you do then?
When your world
begins to tell lies.

When you can’t tell
your own head
what you want in your imagination?

Lie to me, you’d say.
Lie to me, over and over again.
But do not write
the truth.

Run as fast as you can,
from your own imagination.
Because it might come true,
in a horror setting.

Lie to me, over and over again.
But do not write the truth.

For a blank page to lie,
how horrible it would be.
A blank page to lie,
would kill you,
over and over again.

For a blank page to lie,
maybe it’s truly real,
this time.

Real things do break,
you know.

I’ll Still Be The Moon, She Said | Poetry

Will you be the sun
or the moon? I asked her.
She said, I’ll be the moon.
Why? I asked, the light
does not belong to the moon.

I’ll still be the moon, she said.
To borrow from elsewhere
and light the dark,
that is the moon.
I would always want to
be the moon.

The moon is lost,
the moon is eclipsed,
the moon is tainted,
I argued.
So is the human heart,
she said.

Our hearts are like
the moon, reflected over
a broken glass;
it isn’t the moon that’s broken
only the reflection.

I’ll still be the moon, she said;
navigating the dark
under it’s light.

I’ll still be the moon.