It is the blown tails of ribbons red fluttering, waving “hi”.
Warmth that came after the fast amusing spin just by standing by.

Something that delights the eye.
Somewhere a haven nearby.

Nowhere the demons lurk, sweet sunshine.
Not here nor in the dream waves of slumber.
Never inside such shadows dine, sweet sunshine.
If mirth the sincerest thing that carries on thither.

How everything that bounces and hops
stir the tiniest spark into shrieks of laughter.
How in the darkest of dark
tiny little feet taking it’s first grip
on the way through giant stalks
into magical kingdom of cabinets and drawers.

I will tell you a story, of every wounds that shall eventually heal.
It is whispered by the rain and the rainbow that follows after.
I will tell you a story, of the scar who never finds luck letting itself in.
As long as I am within and will always be around.

Now sleep has called for you to join her song,
Be rest assured in her care where night belongs,
Rest now, my dear,
sweet dreams, goodnight.

When Morning and Morrow shall comes to view
I promise you
All shall be well and new.

Picture taken from "Rampo" by Yoshitaka Amano

There is this wide-eyed and savage glare, both glazed and unrepentant.

This frenzied mass of whirling mists, that howls early on midnight.

Saw the red unappeasable hunger, as the unfurling of her imperious tentacles.

Just as relentless so the black pool of terror goes,

Hence her pull is the absence, nowhere to be seen,

Naming the name ones nameless, if one steps between the billow and the calm.

On the other side of tangible grounds. Across succulent meadows his golden glory bounds.

Reluctantly and hushed. We are mounts on our daily haunts.

I seek now to only remember that soft glimpses before the tug.

A tiny sparkle where the dim usually hides within its reach, images flutters outside their frames,

And if founding this dew of yore sends us home, yet of the most guileful Mare travels in altered attires,

Each rustle will be filled with melodies that particular shimmer brings.

And ripples beyond ripples,

Before we knew the songs are settling down,

We will be at home and sound.

It jingles, the bells on the tips of the hat.

As the little boy jump about,

Gleeful as a free sprite,

He shouts,

“I am catching the wind,

No one can bind me while my heels still speeding.”

But the wind finely whispers, as the nature’s wont,

“He heeds not my counsel,

as he plucks and tramples at his will,

beats his stick at my green fellow friends till there is none to greet me passing.

How will he know if there is nothing left to lead him to me?”

So the little boy, with a purple and yellow grin, with bells on the tips of his hat,

carry on, does not perceive and will never figure out.

As he pursuits in vain the wind that’s getting farther and farther away.

Illustration by Cicely Mary Barker

Of feathered sky and rosy hues

They dab my bonny darling’s cheek

A glow to amuse

Of bluebell chimes, sweet honey rhymes

Coos his way to sleep

A distant land warm lullaby’s hum

Gently tiptoed on the air, like the gallop’s hare

Another golden Sunday went by

Marked by the budding and his finger trails ringing

My soft skin feels, but his spirit senses all.

What’s bilious on the coating he warns, had came from self-ignited repulsion.

Oh, what a charm this little one made.

A tiny bean but with bold interminable lights of wisdom to spread.

Oh, what a marvel this little one made.

Seas turned to lands and lands became the skies.

Days littered by grapevines of glimmered laughter,

minutes is chastised by madcap referees.

My soft skin feels, but his spirit senses all.

Waking up at the last ebb of sundown.

Fingers trailing the last dew of honey rays of sunlight.

Her vigil light inside her chest,

Exhaling black sailors,

relinquish some of her precious daydreams to Mr. Night.

In time, my dear, somewhere beneath your steps,

I creep like asps through your nails and feed the hunger.

In time, my dear, somewhere beside your occasional wind,

Her stare are songs of your wallowing laughter.

She keeps her diaries in secret oubliettes in the clouds.

None save you and me,

in time, my dear…

Some say it’s right in the slight bluish outer rims of your eyes,

I say, the three gentle tap on my cheek will set the kitchen stir quite a bit. 

At every turn of your silly hums, 

a sigh of relief with a jolt of my simperingly tease, 

the mind racing and swiveling through each doors,

will leave the window panes glistening safe and sound. 

Our house is an infinite rooms of chances, seasons and hallways of memoirs between a series of recollections and dreams yet to be fulfilled. 

It’s always part of a whole, an entirety of fragments.

Our wake in these slumber.