A bouquet he brought me
I plopped them in a jar
they spread out to each side
like wings.
Through the gap in between
his beggarly beam
Forgive! They were no more than flings!


lips tight
not right
heavy on
the mind
stiff cage
blank page
helps me
to unwind
black hole
poor soul
swiftly gone
the glee
weird eyes
dark skies
still they
visit me

This era of TECH

Thy fount of potential
is inconsequential
unless it is nurtured and tapped

Thy skill, multifarious
is somewhat nefarious
mishandled, marbled and mapped

How thine ego inflates
as talent abates
— such is my observation

Is it not ironic
to favour hedonic
tools contra self-actualisation.