Geppetto’s Boy

It is you whose ghost hands hold onto the morning breeze,
The one wrapped in a corner of a corner,
In the fears of revolting divine.

And should I compare you to the teeth,
that bites at the edge
Of a world I solely stand?

The flip of a coin could only define,
If it’d be your smile or my head bowed down.
The shame holds well, for I have disgustingly obliged.
The ammunition of oaths at your feet.

The Hound

Low at the fingertips,
Bright eyes under furrowed brows,
She looks down on us all,
Her own with a smile.

She talks of the blasphemy,
Exhales the contaminating truth,
The lost dreams in particles,
Lost hope in muddy gleam.

She has unkempt freedom at the tips of her toes,
But where about does she wonder?
‘To the beaches,’ she answers,
‘A place I can finally call home’.

Bitterness spreads better,
Than the butter on bread,
But she is the eyeopener
That has made me realise instead,
What loss I have felt over golden hands,
For the empty heart that pours itself out in my sleep.

So I write to you in lost thought,
In serendipity.
The Hound has awaken me,
And her eyes are suffused with glee.