cold egg

How to explain this train wreck…

This thing we once embraced as love,

that now looks on pitifully,

malnourished and dry.

A former shadow of the promises

we planted in it’s roots.


Take philosophy-

thousands of years of knowledge

to estimate the whereabouts of this

burned itinerary.

Our incompatibility

depended, almost wholly

on your inability

to let go.

Firstly, of your tedious habits-

the very shackles that tainted

a broken looking-glass,


secondly, of me.

That daunting moment after your release,

when the cold skin of a dissatisfied stranger

no longer warmed your limbs,

you clung, stubbornly to the nostalgia

of holograms-

of what seemed to be a scorching summer,

but in reality,

was no more than a tropic drought,

where nothing really survived.

A mere mirage.

We momentarily became cacti,

and when I told you I craved a wetter terrain,

you scoffed and violently insisted

that this was all you knew how to bring;

a blistering heat.

And while I reveled in my prickly skin,

just for you,

you couldn’t even bare the thought

of becoming an Eskimo

for me.

So really,

we were always

couple notches too short of

Plato’s Eudaimonia.


I guess we were overcome

by an invisible gust

of baby powder, pink dust:

debris from an ailment so alluring,

we mistook it’s brazen ecstasy

and mislabeled it as enduring.

Schopenhauer called it ‘will-to-life’,

to which we so automatically complied.

Made us

lay down the logic and virtue

of a scholarly life,

and spiral around a light,


and die,

from the exhaustion

of our




Psychology calls this ‘natural selection’:

one of the many wrath of mankind’s flawed evolution.

When you took my breath away

that lonesome spring morning,

it was indeed my loins,

not my most inner demons

that yearned for a divan in your littered

living room of a life.

I deemed you suitable to father my offspring,

but not the dreams I conceived,

for I owned all paternal responsibilities,

patents and copyrights to my rogue thoughts.

You took no liberty in

baptizing those.


History spreads it plainly, really.

How did you ever believe,

we were built for prolonged matrimony?

It is actually,

no more than a nifty little business plan

to utilize the blood of man.

To pass down to his rightful heir,

the land

He toiled so hard to round off.

So the contract you so desperately wished

to bind my joys in,

is in essence, a sinister commodification,

masked in an even more

seemingly innocuous slew of lies, of

mutual sacrifice.


And of course, stupid us.

To give in so easily

to a hackneyed buzz.

Of diamonds and gold freshly plucked

from cracked fingernails of

dark, aged children.

What a beautiful way to show love!

These dainty briars you placed

around my finger and neck may

have looked like murals

from afar.

But we came up close.

Ached and mourned

over a barren tombstone.

No flowers grew here.

We watered immortelles and cried

when they didn’t bloom.

The pink blinds

and the white picket fence

were, all along

a cemetery, waiting on a simple prayer.