I often go for the scene.I want the story intertwined,In the angle of the bottle.The whole mood,Of the narrative,In the contour.And it is the angleAnd the contourThat keeps me in.Like a hungry cat before its food.

Dawn in your waking eyes, dusk in your dying eyes. Our eyelids peel in daybreak and embrace in nightfall.   There was an aurora of tears in your dusking eyes. Now a velvety blackness behind those fallen eyelids.   Now a death-like still in those tear-wells. Now a life-like rush in bulging...

The sky, a brilliant and unblemished blue, September's morning, a world fresh and new. No hint of shadow, no whisper of dread, As towers of commerce stood tall overhead. In bustling streets, the city awoke, To the rhythm of life, a hopeful stroke. Then silence...