Written Image I

He sat cross-legged on his favourite chair which had cushions lined at every possible angle reflecting the luxury he lived in. A white shirt slung across his torso with effortless elegance. He enjoyed the slight breeze that felt cooler than it really was, as it cajoled and relaxed his otherwise slightly damp, clenched self . Hunger jolted him out of his reverie, he stretched to the coffee table in front for the biscuits made of honey and golden warmth that melted and dripped all over his shirt in a single bite.He didn't care , for it might attract the flies who would give some company to him in this lonely, empty corner of the world that was called his Mind.

Written Image II

He bent over the basin, washing his hands with the clearest, coolest glacial water for a greater length of time than was necessary for he had an abundance of both. He begrudgingly turned off the flow for he liked the sensation, the tickle that the water created in the lined webbing between his fingers. Upon noticing a spherical drop that rested on the tip of his index finger he stopped and peered ever more closely at it till only he and the drop existed and still closer he crept until he stared directly at it's soul and the world through it. A warped,circular world he saw with no detail discernible, releasing the reason for the earth being round and that the earth had outpaced the tranquil, still drop, he wiped it off determined to get revenge for the broken dream it had shown him.

A Lack Of Progress

Alight
As i reach a seemingly random place
Philosopher's mind
where lies my niche

Season that etches into us, time
Blood,salt,sweat- drench and poison the self

Awaiting another time
when the walls crumble again
Each time weaker than the last
Of what use are doors and windows on the ground
Or in shorter towers than my own?