Sand Tunnels

As I dig and dig, the sand parts.

Somewhere along the way

I find a pretty rock

and further down, a shell.

Upon inspection

the shell is shiny and curved just right.

Once I’ve stored it safely in my pocket,

I keep digging

searching, perhaps,

for myself.


As time passes,

my hands cover in coarse brown sand,

undusted as the hole gets larger;

my perspective widens.

Hands thick with soot,

brow furrowed against the sunlight,

I see the other side.


I reach a moment of clarity,

one where looking down at my hands

reminds me of what I’ve done,

what I’ve put myself through

and brought myself out of—  

rising past the thorns

and out from the depths of holes.


When I sit on the edge,

inspecting each rock and shell—

collected, weighing down my pockets

clouding my surroundings—

I see what is really there;

beneath the shine,

the dull, bumpy colouring of a dented shell;

the odd shaping of a crystalline rock.


These symbolic items

and their romantic elements


with their imperfections.

A new, cracked image

shows them as they are—

flaws and all—

shining a light on the fuse between

beautiful edges and faulty cracks.

The overall shape and being

of a simple element


regardless of its initial perspective.



In one small section of my brain,

the door eases shut,

but the light remains.

Around the corner down the hall,

a different storage room collects dust.

The room’s old light bulb is ice cold to the touch;

frail and unused — surely unable to stay on

without blinking with uncertainty.


In this hall, the floors are cracked,

stained with years of

children scurrying to and from,

knowledge expanding

beyond the walls of just one room.


Over time the department gets smaller

and smaller.

Old lightbulbs collect inside a box.

Soon, the hall empties — boxes stack,

stored untouched.

Walls weaken with age,

doors rust unused.


Occasionally, maintenance is done;

a curious growing child goes back

to her roots, seeking what she once knew.  

Boxes are pried open, doors swing wide;

the hall lights up as the dust is washed off.

Each room brightens temporarily.


At the end of the day, the girl goes home,

and the boxes shut;

seemingly neglected still,

dust piles again.

She leaves with intentions to go back;

to revisit and clear the dust.

One day she hopes

to keep the department alive,

for as long as she can help it.

Pixelated Parchment

the future is a blank canvas as i draw rough drafts at every moment,

as i map my past and present.

if i zoom out i see what’s really there; a blur of feeling and subjective perspective.

in the fog, i see what i want to see.

i breathe the fresh air, feeling the wind rush between my fingers.

if you try to catch the wind or the rain

you will be empty handed, wet and cold wondering what you can grasp.

in life it is best to grasp at two things;

your own freezing cold hand and those of your nearest companion.

perhaps he who sits across from you at the dinner table

or who sleeps beside you beneath the sheets.

it could also be your loveliest friend,

each serving a purpose to keep you grounded

as you navigate the world

as you see it, as you see fit.

it never ends;

in one moment i hold the reins for myself

but in the next i’m the co-pilot

advising someone on their next landing.

as the plane halts to a stop it dawns on you;

together you did it, diving head first

into the depths of this world—

in that moment— to alter the course of time.

the map readjusts its pixelated landscape 

to your new predicament.

you clutch the parchment

as you walk, blindly clinging onto the shift in the pixels;

hoping for the nearest treasure—

hoping you, your companion, and your map

will find a good hiding spot to lay low

and watch as the canvas finishes itself.

the plane lands, flown by an expert

and a very confidently helpful co-pilot.

Unconquered Lands

I am speck in time

connected by moments pinned on a board.

As I watch, the string hangs,

disentangled from the past.

In my mind time plays like a black and white movie,

a distant memory.


Waves of longing no longer crash into me

instead, sputtering up to where I stand at the shore

as a reminder.

A brief encounter with what was,

the ocean of experiences is now open for tourists

and I am its first and most frequent visitor;

reminiscing in its scenery, hesitant to dive into its depths.


The beach that is memory lane is never far.

Some days I make the drive

but others, I turn away and go home.

Choosing to look at all that’s in front of me,

I see myself as a whole;

a little bird stuck in a forest of trees,  

surrounded by endless unconquered lands.


I stopped longing for the water

when I flew home.

With a distant feeling of weightlessness and

something bittersweet,

my vacation goggles are off, stored safely in an old shoe box.

The chain breaks at last;

life renewed, larger oceans to be discovered.

the Roots

i look back and i see the shadow of what used to be,

and if i look forward i see all the different versions of me.

as the night sky changes, time freezes.

past me and my music tastes,

past me and my vocabulary.


little things remind me of what is different

and what is not.

above all, they show growth.

deep down, nothing truly changes;

the roots are buried and there to stay.

with experiences, their weight shifts.


in all the whirlwind of life,

time may stop for memories

to come back, to be revived and relived.

things that once held my heart and clouded my head,

all buried in the ground; visible once peeled

beneath layers upon layers

of the created self.


once the playing field changes,

a new beginning looks down

toward the roots

for guidance.

all that was, resurfaces.

the ants and the weeds

all float up to the ground in plain sight

showing what life was once like.


past capabilities and personality unfolds.

after every changing moment,

the self makes room for a different version of that,

an altered version

all connected by one growing seed

and its massive rooting system.

Point Of No Return

The seed lands between two cement blocks,

getting fed and fed by the earth

until it can’t stand being a seedling any more.

A sapling then grows out of the earth between the cracks.


People notice it,

they nurture and love it;

and one day, it decides it feels grown up.

People stop calling it a sapling as it grows and grows

and it reaches

a point of no return.


It reaches a point where no doubts can be found.

As it grows,

the cement around it cracks

and expands.

It cannot go back to being a sapling;

it must continue to grow

and grow.


Until one day it settles above the torn cement,

its roots buried deep,

it no longer destroys its cemented surroundings.

It only solidifies itself,

sinking lower and lower into the ground.

The tree is complete.


It is strong and beautiful,

all because one day, the seedling could not bear to be a mere seed,

and the next day, a sapling wanted to grow.

It now stands, tall and proud;

ready to show itself as it is,

without a doubt,

a tree.

a message in a bottle shattering a concrete reservoir

if i wasn’t clumsy with my words

if they didn’t tumble out of my mouth,

forced out after constant; constant rehearsal

constant repetition


if you weren’t the opposite

if you could tell me things

without the need of the dark

without pretending there was a chance

i didn’t hear you    

if you could tell me things

that didn’t tumble out of your mouth rushed

would we be any different?


i can never manage

much more than a mumble; a whisper

my words get stuck on the way out     

and you’re left there wondering

what that was all about        


i stifle my thoughts      

like a message in a bottle thrown at sea

and yours tidal down like water  

shattering a concrete reservoir         

as much as you can guess my thoughts

as much as yours are a surprise to me

it doesn’t change that in its chaos

we understand each other

loud and clear


so when the time comes, you have said your words

and finally i have said mine

in slow and in fast, we will unite as one