Meraki

Philip was a gorgeous gate. He guarded the Sand Fiona Resorts, it's imported marble and glass windows a stark contrast to his ancient aesthetic. Dressed in vines and dotted with button roses, he'd swerve open to charm the crowds. Kid's wrapped their wrists in the leafy bracelets he'd grow for them. Their carefree faces were all he needed in return. Only the older generation knew of his true origin. He had arrived to the warehouse as mere limbs of wood, cut off from his mama tree that once stood in this very land, among his forest family. Pained with this separation, he grew dull and dry. Thick ropes bound him into a gate, He coughed up saw dust as they painted his fate, The warehouse was a leech, sucking away all Sun, Dehydrated till unconscious, roots of hope were none, But when planted back into the Earth, as a security guard, His spirit bounced back and got recharged, Soft soil and yellow light, Brought memories of that weary night, When the axe left ma

I'm fascinated by people who've got themselves all figured out. With cemented opinions and fixed fashion tastes, they seem so...complete? Like polished furniture, lofty in it's purpose with it's position nailed into the floorboard. Me? I'm more freshly-cut wood, still piled up in a cart, undecided and covered in splinters. I could be a table, I daydream. Balanced, standing strong on my own legs. Or the support for a lamp shade, bathed in the soft glow.                                                                                          But I don't know, you know? I'm yet to live more of life, stumble into mistakes, meet people of every race and shake hands with dark fates. I see all these beautiful people. They all look different, but they all have breath-taking beauty and I question what is it about their poems that seem so poetic and what is it about their voice that drowns out my monkey mind. And I realise. I love them because they  love them. I