“Has Santa grown fat?”“But dear, he died last year...”Damn, she got there first.
Jump, I said,He tripped on a step,In approval.
Fall, I said,He rolled on his back,And giggled.
Cry, I said,And he looked at meWith sadness,Quite unlike him.
Fly, I said,My bird laughed.
Yellow stones weep,For the solemn passing stream,That holds her last breath.
Drench me in your voice,Goosebumps crave to surface,This cold December.
Elements in trance,Persuade time to watch;‘File not found.’
In the throes of March,Unmolested by proverbs,I pluck on my past.
June mornings are bitterSweet in embrace, cunningIn reason, I dreamt.
Trip, fall, rise and walk,Lick your wounds and sniff the air,Bastard’s nearby.
When trapped in a square,You might trip on odd circles.Just blame the rhomboids.
To and forth it walks,The reckless drop of water,That slipped on my palm.
‘Flee my child!’ They warned,And yet she stood there, waitingTo converse with fate.
‘Guilty!’ They cried,‘Not guilty’, they whispered,The syllables missing.
Fleeting pixie wish,On an icy winter night,To find you sooner.
When ambition strikes,Look it thrice in the eye, andFlash a wicked smile.
With a pinch of salt.