Only6:01am and somebody’s already squished
an earth-sized blueberry, mixed its lilac juice
into an ocean-sized bowl of milk,
a honey waterfall drizzled atop,
tossed it in the air,
and called it
a sky.

Visceral Punch

Dynamism of magenta punches-
reaching over lifeless stacked stone-

resuscitated only by the flick of a paint-
dipped brush guided-

by a rather skilled wrist.

A pleasant rendez-vous.

Ripe Blood Oranges

If I were a sky, I’d be the colour of beautifully ripe blood oranges- not their jackets, but the colour of their GUTS- casting golden tones across the world below me, causing people to look up and rethink the world and its regular colour palette until I arrived and changed it all. I’d look right back down at all those faces looking up, filling in the shadows under their eyes with my warm glow, and then they’d all pull out their little phones and take pictures of each other and of themselves and of me, too- just to remember that one evening where *I*, in *MY* colours, stood proudly on the World Stage for a change and danced with my all to the rumbling thunder of a passing storm

Purple Paradox

Purple skies
and long train rides
with a million-and-three
thoughts up top:

sifting through a year
made paradoxically
with loss⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 

yet much lighter
with gain.