The happy accident that is youth, is that we burst in light and we fade in shadows. We love like spontaneous combustion and we hate like bombs. Human forms of fire and smoke, we are the echoes of hope, life and death. Fireworks that schedule no timings. Serendipity’s own children. What keeps us alive? What ignites the spark? If love and life be actions, can breathing be the point of start? The world has gone dark… Where is the spark?



Stick figures,

Round figures,

Flat and square;

Clothed and bare.

Do you cringe and want to tear?

The skin that wraps you

While the human faces act like bears.


They haunt and hunt.

Make you hide and run.

Isolation is your hibernation

“Run baby run;”

The phantoms that lurk

And kill your fun.

The demons that possess mankind

And feed religion like breads and buns.


Abstract figures,

Void of identity.

I am what you make me.

I rise if you raise me

I fall if you pull me

I am a beauty.

I am ugly.

I am what you MAKE of me

An abstract existence

Made to live

You live as you kill me.

Words of a bullied kid, “SAVE ME”.

Pinterest (abstract art)

Static flow~

Linger as you go

Drag destruction on the floor;


Back .



Move the being that resides




The emotions that are dead.

Lifeless yet, fret.

Static as you flow

Nature’s laughing

Man’s life echoes of morose.



Think of the sky~

If none remains…
Think of the sky.
Think of her hues.
Colouring away your blues.
Melt in the warmth of a sunset 
Embrace the night that lurks
Think of the sky.
She hugs you tight
Think of the sky
Lift your face, buck up! 

Think of the sky
Think of me. 

The horizon that separates us
Is but a line… Joined by the sky
You’ll find me.


Night light🌌 

Stared at galaxies. 

Roamed around the stars. 

Found the Milky Way and set out far. 

Light and Years apart 

That’s what we are. 

I stared at a light bulb, 

And found the stars. 

Warped imagination to find you… 

A figment in the stars. 


“Golden mend”…

Found a piece of art,

The old man said, “Broken things reveal a tragic beauty.”

So is man and his heart;

We are all broken moulds,

Chipped and cracked;

And staring at a broken mould,

I see art.

The chipped and broken parts are filled with gold

So the man told.

A long riddled story of the Japanese folk.

And I listened in my own ‘broken-mould’.

Can I be fixed with gold?

Made pretty as I broke;

This thing I hold seems whole

Glowing in broken pieces as the gold seeps,

Will it leap?


Repair the cracks that bleed

Fix and beat

A new life into me…

Kintsukuroi art (Pinterest)


Fingers itch to type. Filtered-realities to upload. In a world cramming for likes, we fight to hide. Reclaiming a small domain of privacy, while hoping people still see. Public relations turn to private settings;

Socializing comes with ‘app settings’


Conceptual Illustrations by Davide Bonazzi (Pinterest)