The city exhales a fever of light
as the crowds reach for the newborn year;
New Year’s Eve throws the windows wide
and drowns the dark in a collective cheer.
The future hums with a restless promise;
and change is claimed in motion,
a thousand voices caught in the rush
of a vast and rising ocean.
But somewhere in the Highlands,
Hogmanay* lingers at the door,
keeping watch on the fire and silence
and the path we’ve walked before. View Post
The sky has returned
to its familiar grey.
It has shed the mask
of bright blue
and loosened its grip
on the sun —
a long exhale
after weeks of carrying
the light.
It carries that weight
no longer. View Post
Even to the sky,
the morning is only a murmur.
It stirs slowly,
shifting under its own weight,
gathering colours
like edges of a dream.
Rolling light
between its palms,
not quite ready
to let go of the night. View Post
It is almost
always
the fireworks
and illumination,
champagne pops
and jubilation
that signal the naissance
of a new year.
But may a quieter light
find you
this year;
like a gentle beam of sun
warming
through the windows
A sunrise here to stay,
not fleeting fireworks
barely passing over shadows.
Every battle
turns war.
Like an interlude
rising into chorus.
Swords moving through the silhouettes,
and the vital red
falls
to the floor
Just like that minor chord
that makes the score.
I think it’s beautiful
that you cry.
When all unravels,
it is your Soul
that speaks
in elements.
To Earth, She calls
when you fall
to the floor.
One hand on the terra,
one hand on your heart—
a reunion of friends
that have been kept apart. View Post
Silence.
Stillness.
Peace.
Fulfillness.
Watching
the quiet roads.
Watching the clouds
cry to the earth
in despair. View Post
“I love you.”
Three
simple words.
Two
simple people.
Stripped down and bare
like two souls getting in touch.
We could make it extravagant.
Florid and voluptuous of words.
But we leave it a testament
of us.
Like birds
in a bucolic setting.
Like the crisp breeze
in a country dwelling.
Rare, and simple, and natural.
Bare, and simple, and factual. View Post
Not beautiful.
Not “aesthetic”.
Not wonderful.
No exquisite epiphany.
No great thoughtful story.
Just simple
broken
life.
An image
of ordinary strife. View Post
I decide everyday
that I won’t write about you today.
That I won’t drop what I’m doing
to watch you walk past me,
that I won’t stop to listen
when you speak to all but me.
Yes, I decide everyday
that I won’t be so obsessive. View Post
In a place where yellow sandstone buildings imbue a golden light to the city, one can’t help but believe in magic. The expert craftsmanship of the historical architecture of Jaisalmer makes the stone come alive; there are stories etched into the carvings, and regality transcends time. Just standing in one of the palace gardens can transport you to the old world of royalty, imperial celebrations, and ethnic luxury.
View Post
Rated the third happiest city in the world, Reykjavík is Iceland’s largest city and lies on the coast. “Reykjavík” roughly translates to “Cove of Smoke” in English, which may be attributed to the volcanoes and smoke around what is now the capital city of Iceland. With its distinctive seasons, the best time to travel to Reykjavík is between June and August, when the sun shines almost twenty-four hours a day and the weather is mild and pleasant. View Post
