when the universe laughs
at how you can’t tell the difference
between glow and gloss
or how you felt lost
beneath his worn out shoes,
guffaws outspread a gust of wind
blustering onto your petty face
the way he grinned,
never once a wise wisdom tooth,
but a pretty muddy face.
he is the ruler of the abyss
and a wolf that cannot be tamed.
his pitch-black pity hole
was as black as the ink scribbled
on a shaved stick with my name.
he makes puppets for a living-
of the living, i would say.
can’t cut the foil strings,
you’ll have to play out his game.
but i never wanted to
(not that i can be sure of),
his lukewarm remarks
were stone-cold hearsays,
not a great storyteller,
he’s a silhouette of his words,
but a smouldering fireplace.
i threw in my baby mittens
to let my hands breathe in more heat
my feet won’t complain
and i can’t put out the fire anyway.
i’ll step on his crippling skeleton.
grate the bones, gather the powder
and leave the flesh all alone,
my wind shall flew him away.
to the girl who blew dandelions,
wishes do come true- (you don’t have to say)
out comes a gloomy day or doomsday,
when tingles don’t come,
he’ll be kept away.