Breakfast in Red

Worth it?

Can worth be measured in the people we meet?
The people we touch and the people we feed?
Can worth be measured in the people we love?
The people we treasure and the people we trust?
Can worth be measured in the days of past?
The people we flatten and finally eat?
Can worth be measured in pounds of flesh?
In trash cleared and smeared on in with the mess?
Can worth be measured in days gone and to come?
Can it be tethered with the idea of justice and fun?
Can worth be equated to having tried?
Having cried and played by the rules, abide?
Can with be written in plain text, gain and pain?
Can it be defined by relentless love and game?
Can it be written not to be erased?
Was it just a phase?
Or can worth be published only with what you achieve?
For you neither have a penchant nor do you admit defeat.

Last published
is not necessarily last met.
I could meet people over pages,
and files, and messages.
Over virtual coffee and biscuits.
Over a pizza and brunch.
Over politics and then lunch.
I could meet people
over all the food and drink.
I could see them
within every blink.
I could make friends in two's
over texts and our blues.
We talk about all that is gone
Happening now and now torn.
We crib, direct and maim,
We talk of all the pain.
Much has come and gone,
we are still singing our song.

If everything could tremble
we could have done it.
If there was a rumble,
we would have done it.
If we were born in a jungle,
we should have done it.

Last met
is not necessarily last seen.
I could see you in pictures.
On turfs unsold and plains.
On beautiful canoes and trains.
In parties and in games.
Through soil and refrain.
I could see you in pain.
In sharing and in gain.
We met through a window,
we met in self contain.
Much has wilted and waned,
we are still not to blame.

If a fist could crush concrete,
we are the saint.
If they fell with a tumble,
we left out the paint.
If a dream capsized,
we didn't dream to dream again.

Last seen,
is not for sure the last has-been.

The Mask

The rebuttal,
the return
Bringing the colours
of the old and new.
Decision among fruits.

Inhale!
Being still.
a thought
a rebuke,
Exhale!

Language,
a trick in words,
a meaning behind the turf.
The layer removed,
unearthed,
reworked.
A peel
ripped,
gathered,
shed.

Inhale!
go back to
Being still.
a thought
another rebuke.
Exhale!

If love was but a parady,
Of a life lived and stolen.
Of moments uneven and gallant.
Of kisses bought and sold,
Of metres ran untold.
Of eggs broken and rigged.
Of hearths fired and lit.
Of homes built on quicksand.
Of walls built in glass stands.
Of a face admonished in brass.
Of people walking on grass
and of kindness but a task.
What if love was that tragedy
Of those stories untold,
and the many books yet unsold.
Of pieces of paper ridged underneath
That heavy squalor and burnt sheets.
What if, like from those years ago
Love was still that haze in blue.
The squints from eyes two.
As blue as the far off mountains
As blue as the everyday rain.
As blue as the unvisited ocean
and yet as blue as all that pain.
As blue as the bird in flight,
and bluer still after a fight.
For blue is as warm as can be
As true as the unheard melody.
As tall as the heights unscaled.
As wide as the girth of ancient trees.
For blue is as strong as can be,
To digest this reverence in parody.

An Eon after a Series of Flights

I left

He left

So did she.

I reached,

Neither did he nor she.

It's a beautiful day
There is so much noise around me
It's almost impossible to draw or write.
I seem to have forgotten noise.
I have tried to live in a couple of noisier cities than here, but it was never so noisy.
I always have found that corner, that spot,  that thought.
But now, here, every horn feels louder, ever vehicle without a silencer. Every bump in the road, ah well. I think I overrated moving here. Home is where the hearth is. But my hearth is amiss at the moment. 
I travel by buses to curb the feeling. I try to hide behind a book, as I always have. I work late into the night. I hide behind the bathroom door or the headphone set, as I always have. As I always have, was years ago. Can it still be the same. Sleep is a reprieve. Is it my book or my mind.
My dreams wake me. Sometimes they take me.