RITUAL COMFORT 

Bring out the lamb, let it watch from the tower, 

whose feast has begun, the finest hour. 

A phantom lay beating his chest from below, 

where scorpions mock how our blood likes to flow. 

The curves and the edges of roses and thorns 

prick at your fingers, peeling and torn. 

Insensible coldness, the mind surely fears, 

the body lay buried, drown’ed in tears. 

Plucked like a stray, unburden the head

between rib-cage and barren heart. 

Call to the wing ’ed and ask, 

Am I dead? 

To which, a sigh, and 

onwards he led. 

Bereft and dismayed, the rotting corpse stays, 

no lines mark the face, no discernible age. 

Roots pierce through what is left of the flesh, 

shoot out their tendrils to steal your last breath. 

Wither away with all your intentions

to witness the rise of the sun. 

Conspire with demons who toy with your reasons, 

and peace shall soon be sprung. 

FIRST TIMER 

A shopping trip, the right dress 

Question family distress 

My first grown up event 

Question all the money spent 

A stranger stands and smiles too much 

Hands shoot up to ribs and clutch 

onto poetry he can’t have known 

to songs, his likeness never shown 

WITNESS 

There’s something about the sound of a buzz that reels in the freshness of a day. The pollinator rises, nature takes is course and there you stand a witness to its majestic artistry. If you stand a little closer, you’ll start to notice the buzz has changed its tune. What once sounded like I’m busy at work, started to translate to agonizing screams. Disturbed by the sound, you kneel down closer, your knees disrupt the gentle sway of the grass. There you spot the source of the buzzing; trapped in a web, calling for help. The buzzing rings in your ears and pierce through your brain until the bulbous thumping against your skull becomes unbearable. You shoot up and look around, wondering if anyone is watching. The buzzing doesn’t stop, it courses through you, begging to be freed. You feel nauseous and guilty, the spider must be fed, you think to yourself. You brush your thighs and stare down at the web as it thrashes back and forth. The spider must be fed. You walk on until all that’s left of the cries is a pulsing in your eardrums. The worms must be fed.  

BARGAINING 

I give to you my eyes; I need not gaze upon the stars.

I hand over my rear; I need not sit upon the grass. 

I volunteer my voice; I have no need for words.

I surrender my heart; you may feed it to the birds. 

My canines and my molars; for rotting is ensured.

My blanket I can be rid of; the cold I will endure. 

My power, I relinquish; consume it into air.

My sorrow, I abandon; little use in my despair. 

My arms I can let go of; no longer in my grasp.

Just let me keep my memories, it is all that I will ask.