~ A Nursery Rhyme ~

By night the lamplights bloom in blue,
and Squinty Bat comes lurking through.
A flicker, a whisper,
a crooked spin,
she twirls in the hush where dreams begin.

She nibbles moths that orbit the glow,
grim as the gossip graveyards know.
Around the lamp
she loops and slides,
a velvet ribbon on moonlit tides.

At morning sun - dreadful, bright! -
Miss Clara Parrot claims the light.
She squawks and scolds,
so green, so loud,
a herald of day to the mortal crowd.

She tattles from trees with her feathered choir,
spilling the secrets that night conspired.
Their laughter clatters
like shattered glass,
naming each sin the shadows let pass.

Neighbors groan and pull their sheets
as Clara reigns over waking streets.
While Squinty swings
in her secret nook,
dangling like crime in a dusty book.

By day, it’s Clara, gossip and glare,  
by night, it’s Squinty, a ghost in the air.  
And before you ask:
Which one is blessed?
the sun and the moon will refuse that test.

There was no when. Only hush, folded in silence so deep it hadn't yet learned the name "dark."

A breath, not taken but imagined by something that would one day remember being God.

Time crouched in the corner of nowhere, unstrung and unborn, counting moments it had yet to invent.

Then the exhale.

Not wind.

Not sound.

But everything!

Light in its first vulnerability, heat like a promise, matter scattering like doubt that finally believed itself.

Stars bloomed like rumours, planets tumbled into questions, and gravity whispered, "Stay."

The cosmos blinked, still wet with origin. And in that blink, myth became memory draped in motion.

Before laws, before names, before the ache of wondering, there was this: a sigh so infinite it sang itself into becoming.

Do I have a mind to map? 🤯
A wrinkled maze, a twisty trap? 🪤
Or just a spark that zips and zings, ✨🤐💃
Uncharted thoughts with flappy wings?🦇

💥 What if the mind’s a sketch unseen, 🤯
Drawn in dreams or in between 💭
A tangle, giggle, sigh, surprise; 🪢🤭😮‍💨😯
A galaxy behind my eyes?🌌👀

I chase a dot, it loops, it darts, ⚆➿🎯
It scribbles over all my charts. 📊
Each idea - a bounce, a swirl, 🌀
A jellybean inside a whirl.🥡

So here I sit, map in hand, 🗺️
No compass, no strict command. 🧭
Just wondering where the neurons nap... 💤
Do I have a mind to map?🤯

while taking coffee
in a particular place
******* on chocolate torte
slightly melted,
the lord of the manor,
reading.

grew a headache
from the stuff, too much
sweet , too much
information, all too true
to pattern.

so we drove home, and
got on with it.

nissan huts.

A girl once twirled in her garden bright,
Her laughter dancing with morning light.
Unaware, across the gate,
A man stood still — a twist of fate.

She froze mid-spin, his shadow near,
A stranger’s gaze, a rising fear.
She fled inside, heart clenched with fright,
Curtains drawn, away from sight.

The morning after, schoolbag tight,
She stepped into the waking light.
And saw the man — calm, still, and kind…
With quiet eyes, yet stone-cold blind.

No threat, no stare, no lurking harm,
Just silence wrapped in human form.
That day she learned what masks can hide,
Not all are wrong, not all are right.

For even truth wears borrowed face,
And safety isn't always grace.
The world, it spins in shades of grey —
Not all who watch can take away.

It doesn’t grow; it lingers.
Clings to ice older than regret, green with memory no world was there to gather.

The silence hums like a forgotten vow, not broken, just orbiting its chance to be said.

Moss dreams in spores and spores of maybe.
Each tendril reaching for a gravity that will not claim it.

This is not nature.
It’s ritual.
A fuzzed hymn to the act of staying where leaving has already begun.

So the comet loops, wearing time’s soft refusal.
And we, the flinch, the breath halfway drawn, call that orbit "now."