Dream
Dream, little boy, dream.

Dream of running into the sea with your little sunburnt friends.
Dream of the dogs that lap at your feet and run with you in great lunges across roads you only know too well.
Dream of the cities that wait for you and dream the cities that do not exist yet.
Dream of the busy marketplaces that hold you in their thrall.
Dream of their multicoloured delights blinking benignly.

Dream of the wind that you wish to ride.
Dream of the world that is to be your steed.

Dream of green days that drip soft, sparkling smiles.
Dream of a universe of strange numbers and stranger pictures.

Dream of new people and old, dream of friendly strangers and unknown companions.
Dream of streets that offer you but a vague glimpse and leave you thirsting.
Dream of maps that have not yet been etched.
Dream of roads that have yet not been told their name.

Dream of libraries filled with all kinds of sights and smells piled upon each other.

Dream of a piece of string, a few marbles and a dog's silhouette in the doorway.
Dream of the simple, familiar things, and dream of the vast, great unknown.
Dream of a kind word at your ear, dream of a warm head sleeping by your feet.

Dream of a song that has roots in the wizened banyan, and dream a melody that no one has sung before.
Dream of tugging at someone's hands and dream of the hands that have always soothed yours.

Dream of things so momentary and fleeting, that you only manage to ask them who they are.
Dream of the wisdom you found sleeping under rocks, dream of the tales you saw spinning in the leaves high above you.

Dream of stories that will be forgotten as soon as the dream changes. Dream of kind storytellers who will stay when your eyes fly open.

Dream of a window painted in a cathedral as old, as pure and as sacred as life itself. 

Dream of a place far removed from time. Dream of heights that spiral and swirl around you.
Dream of a long road that winds up a cliff by a large blue sea.
Dream songs into your dream, dream places and people. Dream of the roar of the sea.
Dream multiple lives beginning and ending, dream millions of eyes waking and closing. Dream of the patient wait of the cliff.
Dream fragments, pieces, dream the world, dream some more. Dream of a place that has been promised by you for years.
Dream a crescendo, dream a symphony, dream a frenzy. Dream of the person waiting along with the blank rock, for you to heed your promise.

Dream silence, dream peace, dream pure white. Dream of pouring your words into cupped palms.

Dream of togetherness. And watch the world come alive.

Time
Time glides along your skin.

Seconds slip into the hollow of your neck.
Minutes roll off the plains of your back.
Hours dip into the whirlpool of your ears.
Days lose themselves in the velvet of your eyes.
Weeks turn black in your hair.
Months traverse the maze of your hands, wandering through the gouges on your palms.
Years strengthen the sinew of your arms, redden the iron of your chest.
Decades accumulate in your soul of shifting shadows and flitting highlights.

Unblinkingly, an age passes by.
And just as steadily, my love meets the molten gaze of your years.

Completing an unfinished song.
Murmuring an incomplete prayer.
Writing an unsent letter.
Drawing an invisible castle.
Composing a crude melody.

Because the simplest of things describe you the best

The Forest
And what do I write about tonight?
Shall I write you? Shall I write to you? Shall I write about you?
How shall I write you?

I try to confine you within these spindly, hesitant letters.
But words never were your prison.

And so, you waft through this lazy summer night, on the back of a crumbling leaf.

You whisper your secrets to the wind, and they blow across the grassland like a thousand florets of dandelions.

Your laughter skips along with the water striders treading the moss green waters of the pond.

You lean back against a damp trunk and stare at the stars.
Somewhere, maybe, a cloud of fireflies takes wing.

You lower your eyes and watch the tempestuous dance of lightning across the water.
The water flashes silver and the sky churns a deep violet.

You dive right into the storm, the wind cutting a pathway open for you.


The forest becomes you and you become the forest

There you go, tiptoeing through the forest of my mind again.This time, I walk with you, I see what you see.I reside in the warmth of your cupped palm, I resound in your whistle to your loyal companion.

This time, the silence grows heavier, louder, as the streetlights break their neon vow.

This time, more than ever, I wish that I was really by your side, walking that seemingly innocent carpet of crumbling leaves.
What will you unearth today? What apparition will the trees choose to bless you with?

What do you tread on tonight? Is it an innocuous forest floor or a shapeshifting landscape of shadows?

One of those nights when nothing else will do.

Trees froth overhead like a menacing sea of dull gold.

Where are you? How are you? Are you okay?

Shadows flicker, lengthen, ensnare. Do you want to be trapped?

The Night is Raining Down
Barren streetlights.
A dry drizzle.
Slow hurricanes.
Rolling clouds.
Damp bridges.
Tremulous reflections.
Gleaming shadows.
Borrowed rain.
Shattering droplets.
Cascading walls.
Colliding highlights.
Screeching wind.
Dancing roads.
Singing wheels.
Soaked notes.
Huddled dogs.
Blurred strangers.
Familiar phantoms.
Stained stairwells.
Lurching rivulets.
Flickering corridors.
Vanishing corners.
Rumbling songs.
Rambling stations. 
Laughing nooks.
Sombre crooks.
Whistling signals.
Ghostly traffic.
Weary yards.
Dimming shards.
Wandering conversations.
Howling proclamations.
Coughing fans.
Steaming trashcans.
Yawning shutters.
Busy gutters.
Babbling dreams.
Rumpled seams.
Expectant beds.
Cold sheets.
Clustered tales.
Dewy stars.
Moist moons.
Diaphanous rooms.
Protective trinkets.
Watchful amulets.
Hesitant feet.
Beckoning sleep.

The night in one syllable. You.

Home
A kaleidoscope of dreams plays on the window.
Overhead, the sky rumbles with a purple fury.
Hands strain against makeshift bars of bamboo, held back by strips of bark.
Sounds all pile upon each other in a writhing swarm.
Shadows chase each other across the cracks on the wall.
Paint blooms in quiet little bouquets, occasionally bursting forth with the powdery foam of want and need.
Every time someone shuts the door, the ceiling bestows little showers of blessings.
Water sneaks in to hide in cosy, dry corners, leaving wet footprints behind.
The box buzzes and crackles with its ghostly little people.
The stove hums merrily, putting out tendrils of inviting smells and welcoming sizzles.
A table screeches and scuttles around on four short legs.
A recumbent head lets out a low sigh, like a long drawn whistle.
Doors slam, children bawl, myriads of lives play out in a panorama of little rectangles of light.
A siren blows, a kettle shrieks, claws skid against a cold floor.
The house waits with the patient, wordless wait of an ascetic.
The house waits for you to make it a home again.

Your absence fills my life like fragrance settling in an empty room.
Like water pooling in crevices.
Like sunlight echoing through a dusty room.
Like shadows crowding in a lit doorway.
Like a shriek slipping off the rocky ledges of a cavern.
Like the wind in the trees.
Like the flight of a hundred wings in the evening sky.
Like dawn breaking on the brow of night.