Caia J. Cookie

a small token of kindness (9th December 2021) 
          
          the sun adorns itself with the stomach of the storm, wild with pink carnation embraces and fire of the splintered heart walls. pistachio love and fluttering skies;  light a fuel, and a vanishing identity. the devil free to roam, believer a misguidance like a nightingale's sweet talk. 
          
          thunderstorms a song, the salt drops lyrics of its ventricular fins and churning sorrows. hills of skeletons, graves of souls; worship of demons and prayers of turbulent stomachs. ink of independence churned into sand and syllables; seas and oceans feasted upon like candied cartilages. 
          
          dusk fashioned claws, moon graced rages; the night a dark amaranthus, eyes curtained with sunsets. sugared wounds, salted licks; bothered ruins, hundred layered crescents. existence drowned into rose water, grief and waves floating across the womb of the horizon. 
          
          in depths, there are beginnings; under the shadows, in the dark smudges of thirst. contradictory roses, wordless blood, the paintings of the things crushed, the heart lost in a claustrophobic mist . in frozen tears and anarchic quests, awakening tornadoes and pitiful plays; there are rumours of lost minds in the places of death; place of birth, place of raw flesh. 
          
          not easy it is to hand over parts that you are blind to, like foreign reds and shivering smiles, a tongue of passion and eyes of morning nights. to give away bricks of home is only a thing of hearts supported by good insides, like the kind sky that tears itself apart to share its home with the world around, like the chaotic dark that resorts to calmness after the moon pecks its way through. 
           #adropofhumanity 

Hi!  Thanks so much for the follow!

a small token of kindness (29th November 2021) 
          
          the sun dreams of mysterious hills, and one flower songs, and birds of haze and memorandums of souls. it eats away the aches of sore shoulders and creeps into alleys to awaken the rested roots. it baths the daffodils with butterfly breaths and wounds the hours with crimson fever. it adorns coloured oceans and mad skeletons, ruffles the hair with raven feathers. 
          
          in the fragility of the abandoned skins; of dense roofs and flickering frostbites, dull worship and tired skins, battlefield burns and turbulent knees, earth like ships and seas kneads the land into night's blossoming birth. the curse of the blood moon lingers in the drowsiness of the lungs, in the tales of the uncaught, in the weight of the suddenly lost. 
          
          toes divided into shells of pearls, like the petals of lotus sunken in dirt; the maps of mishaps a road of fortune, the world a swing, the sky a fingerprint. shadows of yesterday's soul in pages of twilights and dawns, the fatigue of the throat comforted by July dirt. morphed bandages and emptied wounds, cold wars and malestrom wolves; what is a home? too much comfort, too less love. 
          
          pollen of passion, a nectar of poison, the soil a drug, the earth tempted to throttle. foot prints grow deeper, the land becomes a thing of menace; if stuck for long, bodies get buried in basement sands, home like necropolis. 
          
          too much sun in the sky, the sun becomes a sin to itself. too much of the moon in the dark, the stars become a fleeting ocean on fire. too much life within soul, one loses the body to the dead. too much love in the heart, it gets clogged with its own red. in balance, life is hard. in extremes, it is deadly. live sparsely with bruised bones, today is home, tomorrow is a playground- like prison. 
           #adropofhumanity 

Hey! Would you be interested in adopting one of my books? Please check out my account for more details and send in your form!

a small token of kindness (25th November 2021) 
          
          fangs of fortitude unmask themselves from the rays of the sun and buckle in tenderly to a musty memoir. maternity remains, in most of its stages, within the sky's blends; like soft lather from a coffee's gaze. what is meant to be forgotten sticks around in the climate of the mind, as though music from piano's striking stars. 
          
          watch and catch, hold and explore, what the jewels of the night sing as a prose; as a reminder of its stretched solitude, from one bit of its existence to the rest; marks of slippery injury and sweat upon its body. much it begs for, dark after dark, in trillium twilights, in coffee-lit sunsets, in flickering frostbites and mourning mangroves. 
          
          in the obliterated shores of the abandoned seas, of the golden sand marked with diabolical tongues of caramels, there are present gleams of faded beginnings and unstrained marks of life's plannings. unbearably beautiful it is; they hold onto the fury of the waves and wishes the sea goodbye. 
          
          things that can lure the air into desolation, by their side and beside their gaping heart, are those black with loneliness. cradle the pink veins of the foetus with the thick knot of the placenta around it; a momentary connection between life and its second form. it is alone there, the new heart, in its own pool of sorrows. 
          
          every so often, it is apparent and seen, the mind making connections with several violins; and the foetus an instrument rare to hold. many a beats a heart uses, but none can it find close enough to even see. prettiness is a state of solitude; like a cloud of beauty but nothing to rely upon. and the stars that hang all night without a bed to toss upon. 
          
          mind is easy to befriend, like a balm of butter. it is the heart that is blackened with solitude, a universe mistaken as an enemy's ground. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (24th November 2021) 
          
          the veteran sun holds close the magenta rage; traces of maternal spine and a shadow of the constricted girl in a woman gulped by slaughterers. raspy words and kites of innocence, demanding notes and pastel shaded envelopes; a finger slashed with extravagant remorse. the morning king wraps a shawl around the human's mind, in a fire, wherein it burns to history and earth. 
          
          upon maturation, the queen of a every knight, flickers its snowflakes over the velvet-like pride of forests and flowers, lovers and lies. many then are torn down to serenity, their skulls exposed to burning tears; the moon an acidic hue. soft parlors of stars etched upon lips of beautiful fury; muddled reflections of an anxious devil and a heart wet with faith's dewiness. 
          
          hands and fingers stuck in cold windows, in the society's concept of a prejudiced prison; wrung by the stomach and hung by the heart, flung into the air like a sea's wild swan. mouths of rain and hearts of manners, time of today and aches of tomorrow; whirled between eternity and death of every second. 
          
          realisation has dissolved into thin earth, minds now poisoned by the devil's apple. run and run while glued to the present, die and die succumbing to the gone nights in the future. vessel of brass brimming with age, bodies and souls molested by suppressed veins. 
          
          we run; we run fast with names, we run as if to catch death, as if to slaughter the days. we run as though to hold the passed breaths, the warm liquid of yesterday in our palms bare and the beats of journeys scratched into nails. we run as the sun does behind the moon,  but never once sit back against the trees of time and watch home unfold with our blood of present smiles. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (23rd November 2021) 
          
          the sun falls upon the aretha of moments, decorating and brushing the edges with strings of silver feathers. the mellow pond speaks a tale, a fable of nine thousand glows and one of the rising  petals of dawn. 
          
          each man holds a sword to the night; a gleam of dancing echoes, a ferocious pilgrimage to the sublime stone. the tulips fall against the aging sea, bathed in turmeric and bits of achilles heel. what threatens it but a thing of love. what drowns is but a piece of land. 
          
          the war has submerged the scents of mind, deep in the bones of wheat fields. balance bothers the sky, numbers a human's intellect. what weighs and is weighted with words is never a feeling of flowers, rather a bridge of stone with the heart clogged into stone. 
          
          the stars on a palm's freedom would be briefly beautiful. in prison, however, like a forever depicted. the hands we have two, one for life and the other to choke, like flowers of divorce, the shades conspicuous of the lethal rides. 
          
          love from a distance, even from an unseen mouth, how distinguishable it is, how luring, as though a mother in devil. it comes from deserted feet and wallowing winds and ancient tombs, it comes from fogged graves and disloyal crimes and diminishing music notes. 
          
          true love is ridiculous, but so is life. from a distance, it smells like heaven's musk, like a glance filled with soft petals of dusk. but near, near to us, in us, never found. as though our soul lives far away from us. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (21st November 2021) 
          
          the light of November's sun is that of a sinful sunset, with pine needled preaches and nocturnal nostalgic nostal. death is a conduit of life, the sun a kiss of eternal life. where it thrives, where the storm blooms with bones, where the flowers cherish the obsidian raging with blue; the sky a constellation of ivory palms and forged children. 
          
          the steam of the moon's mind is but a gentle ray, its wounded woman a warrior of porcelain blood. what it protects, what is gives, and how much tumult we return. the power of a thousand springs against a winter fueled by graceful wildfire. 
          
          oceans and glasses under the gaze of crystal, the walk of a bangled dandelion along the whispering waves, words of worship, a call of submission to the floating nerves. barefooted youth, a place of massacred mind and hopeless happiness. the seas understand, they have found your shadows and have preserved them in flights of beads. 
          
          whether day or night, the sky shines with pride. like a little water and a bit of salt make up an ocean,  war and a bandage make up a human. light is light, whether pink or purple. each has a station in the universe, a homely hug, and every one has a place destined together, with unity, like a rainbow. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (20th November 2021) 
          
          in crochets of homesickness,  there are lose bits of errors, hanging for the world covered with tender musk. what is left open, like Mozart's quintet, is a network of spaces, a goblet of garish galleries. in the sky, colour of the sun thrives, perhaps out of no choice, out of pietism pity, while it remains embraced with the ground's peaches and seasalt on greasy windowpanes. 
          
          with the moon, most agonise over the partiality of the war- torn, periapt lake; a reflection of perfumed catastrophes with the face of an unknown longing. what spares the man's mind is a sage of solitude and what captures it, a lamp of loneliness. and in its glory, never is the eye observant of the silent killer, behind an arm of artistry. 
          
          some drink too much of fate's poison, a toxicant that coaxes out sealed wounds like the sunlight pulled from November leaves. the others are desperate for the lull of lime's ink, for contentment and paradox, for satisfaction and a sour sentiment. 
          
          what the beads of ocean lack in their lungs is an admiration that caresses their waves enough to find the water underneath tingle with tears. what if all it has wanted was to cry a bit, see what the human heart so often presented to it? supposing all that it desires is a drop from its den that matches with the moon's beckoning? 
          
          it is, more often than not, observed that what suffers the greatest is what is subject to uttermost rejection. what needs must is the abandonment of the idea of strangeness; of discomfort, of a name not mixed with comforting sassafras. not everything can serve as a home. and not everything that is not home, is malaise. 
          
          just as the heart in you that is red, and the veins so blue with vain; home is but a fleeing hostage, a walking swirl of wind. perhaps, had we not abandoned our veins as such, they would not have still been so blue; terrified of what it stays in and a stranger to its own building. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (18th October 2021) 
          
          there is an archaic beginning in the deliberate little steps of the sun, like the movement of a camel from one step to another. the depth in each mark, the carving in every little slip is a ruffled wish undefined; a sip of rich heritage left behind. 
          
          the dull bending of the sky's canvas to the inclusion of oily night is as the bone of the Himalayan breeze; coldly mild. where there are brushes of the night, there are strokes of the least seen, the less lovable. in the deceased there are dried tulips; loam dancing to its petals, the pink quartz of a breath stolen like a butterfly wing hanging to its stem. 
          
          in everything around, the forest and the sandstorms, the foam of the fresh loops around the birds of yellow; the cast of their hearts clutched in between fingers. the mute dragonflies and the lacey poetry are matted with the seeds of dates; fragility masked with melancholic sweetness. 
          
          vulnerabilities sync with the centenerian nibs of pens and tears shrink in the graceful snowballs. i deeply cerebrate, why must we feel disconnected with ourselves? the sun and the sky, the moon and the fog, are they not spectacular within themselves? or are they too forgotten ink abandoned like the veins inside our wrists? 
          
          there is beauty in the sky, there is only one of it. there is a well behind the surface that blurs the eye. the sky represents to you its stars and its storms alike to show that hurricanes and veins go side by side. it is haunted by itself and you by who you appear. 
          
          if you are left within yourself, then perhaps, like the sun's rays upon the ocean waves, you need to be kept preserved in a bottle of roses; in a mirror filled with honeydew kisses. 
           #adropofhumanity