Wednesday, June 1, 2011


I live in a tiny match-box
You open my sliding doors,
pick me up with a swish,
and start a fire.
My insides turn into ice,
just thinking of your vice.
Yet, I manage to remain warm,
with a tendril of smoke
paying a poignant tribute
to your burning desire.

Split Ends

Frayed and emaciated,
the brown curls
lay on her forehead.
She twirled a bunch of loose strands,
around her left ear.
A few broke loose.
The betrayal of keratin?
A silent scream
A loud swoon -
She spotted those split ends.

Don't mind the music

Footsteps in the mind,
prodding softly, slowly.
Rats to the Gouda,
and a stray banana peel!
A somersault.
Head over heels,
an audible groan.
Footsteps rise to the occasion,
rising with the melody.
The beat of my own heart :
the coda.