My Tornado Is Sleeping

Hush! Make not the rude sounds,  let not the winds be stirred. Let not the nights be awakened, for the ghosts shall rest tonight. Let not the wanderer be seen, for he hides the secrets you abhor. Let not your foot cross the sanctity of my soul, for the beasts may haunt you forever. Takr not my resilience for my weakness, for my facade is my fallacy

Heaven? Or Hell?

The church mandates the truth and truth is the way. A nun is the vessel of the church and truth be her potentate. Yet, who defines truth? Is the nun's inner calling greater than the words scribed on her mind? Is the way of the church the supreme infallible truth, or is the empathetic route the way? Is the way of righteousness heaven? Or Hell?

Musings Of A Wallflower

I see you. I see you laughing with profound innocence, your eyes blazing with the angelic fire that burns within. I see your jaunty step reflect the vivid colours of your ornate mind. I see you embrace the psyche of the world, and blend into its technicolour. You are an enigma, a quandary, and a fireside chat with you would teach me much more than a thousand books

When The Wolf Howls

The obstinate man was over the wall again. His audacious behaviour warrants strict corrective actions. We broke his body, but his soul is unscathed. The sound of his breath, the smile on his face haunt me now. Somewhere, somehow, I know his light is growing. And his glow shall banish the darkness we all hide within

Flow of the Waterfall

The man raised his arms to the sky. His arms glowed bright with the resolution of his mind.His trembling hands gripped the frail frame of his tool but the beast within him growled in anticipation. Suddenly, his weakness became his strength, and the sands of time changed their course.

The Inner Works of Solomon Grundy

Solomon Grundy was born on some day. Christened with the name of a saint whose books were the crowning jewels of the ashes at the bottom of the hearth, he grew up to be a nemesis of his namesake. He took his brain out and exchanged it for a box of firewood. He married an epic work of literature, framed it and hung it on the wall as the centerpiece. He poured moonshine on his innards, quenching his spark but sparking the fire. His lungs sang  his swansong on a weekday, and he was buried by the pall bearers, since his family was off to the moon.

Blazon

The distant hill glows bright blue. The house opposite to mine is a distinct yellow. The dog barking away is a dull gray. All the trees burn bright with the rain. The mad man's laugh is a royal indigo, for he feels what we do not. Your happiness is tinted with a slight green. My sadness's edges glow bright with a golden husk. Everything has a light blue hue.The world is a mirror