the absence echoes throughout this
self-inflicted desert, a wasteland of...

a humble vagabond; shadowing your existence
in search of a conclusion to a story that was...

and you – what tethers your soul to this
vagrant world? what little good does sleep...

your tongue is the lands where
i harvest sugarcanes and dates...

cradled between your amber irises,
between the streaks of fiery red and...

i am not whole.
i lived my life in fragments...

you liken us to ashen stars – charred by...
marred by the violence of a turbulent galaxy...

this is an attempt at a spoken word piece, wrote...

poetry resides at the tips of your fingers, you...
i know this intimately, because i saw the sun rise...

my tongue, a honeycomb ripening
in June’s light, my words take flight...

RED
carmine sky swallows the canary sun...

for far too long, i've dreamt of your fingers –
i’m intimate with the poetry they’re capable...