Pointed Spears

What were the chances.
I thought them high;
High enough to
Search through monuments
Without a map to guide,
Building babbling towers
Towards the heavens,
Wading in waterfall fountains
Of penniless coin tosses

Or was that chance
Worth all this.

But doubt,
Friend or foe,
I can’t seem to tell.

But love
We know.

Wavering heart entrances,
Shields in steadfast motion;
Barricades of rhythmic paces;
Steadily we march,
After bypassing defenses
Overtly dressed
In bare nakedness
In lines of verses
With spears pointed
At those with chances.


Mist Art

Beating vacuumed chambers
Desensitised to the feeling
From clotted valves
To those words of mist.

Suspended particles
Dispersed at miniature shores
And miniscule mountain tops.

Stage props
Of cardice
Betwixt atomic regions
Murkily drift
Blending in,
As those,
None the wiser,
Fail to consider
The dislocation.