Elusive Illusion

What is poetry, she asks, Distilled misery, I tell her. Or refined joy, quips she. Sorrow hollows the soul, said Gibran, so its chalice can hold joy. Poetry, I said, is shards of my soul, being carved out, a syllable at a time. Her warm embrace dissolves the rest of the words in my palate….

Little piece of Cancer

In the fields of the mind, the parasite planted itself, Courtesy a trivial gesture or a passing joke. It grows, Surreptitious, Seductive, Serendipitous.   Alien, yet amicable, Invasive, yet comforting, Exotic, yet crude, Apathetic, yet sensual, Shrouded in mystery, drowned in indifference.   You see it prosper, Taking the shape of the void within, Water…