Skyfall

The world is a voyeur

in this souk of words

it constantly demands

Nudes of the souls

mine are mostly

self-portraits

in pastels and greys

palettes get limited

by the lenses of

joy and pain

life spins like a wheel

Time is a razor

twin-blades - love and deceit

unlimited close shaves

of too many trieds

and could-have-beens

With Hemingway

in the trench of depression

I learnt that

the heart of a writer

is their only bait

Memories nibble on it

shred by shred

maybe that's why 

most cages

are made of ribs

In an old playlist

-" ....you may have my number

you can take my name

but you'll never have my heart"

The wild  thing

In my cage

Howls

and remembers

someone sing