Words and an Ocean

A flock of words fluttering inside your mouth
Beating against a cage of gilded teeth, gleaming with malcontent
They escape, slowly, flitting out one afer the other
roosting in my ears, nesting in the craggy cliff that is my heart

An island adrift of its moors
You have become, self sufficiently broken
A perpetual motion machine, running on a fount of resentment
nothing I offer is big enough to cross the chasm
My sails are empty, even though they long for your shores

Onomatoepic sounds amplify the silence between us
Smothering white noise of automatons in pretense of life
Every act is a foreboding I cant repel
The ruffle of hastily folded clothes, the scratch of dragged boxes
Doors unceremoniously shut, the exhaust of your lover’s car
They overwhelm me and my gilded cage breaks
To release no words
Just grief long ignored and a fractured soul recoiling
Like the bourgeoise at the sight of beggars by the door.


working on my writing by taking a number of writing exercises, one of which is description as a plot device. This is one of such exercises. Scrutinize and review maybe?


Like a heap of broken eggshells, they’re piled in a corner of the earthstrewn floor. They’re speckled with bits of the earth and covered in some places like mulch. Each one’s neither as big or small as the next. They’re the milky white of paint left out in the sun for too long; sullied enough for you notice but not enough for an outright assault on your senses. They had freckles on their fragile lines , black spots against the sun bleached white that on anything else would seem ugly but on them gave what an artist would term as ‘character’. These are my lovely bones and since I was killed I have watched over them dearly.