Articles by the BWP

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The Fall of Elysium

The Fall of Elysium

Like Gods under this sun we used to tread Through meadows of heaven we once called home, Never afraid of what might lie ahead, Above us nothing but the vast blue dome. For eons past we called this world our own, Blind to the heralds of our own demise; Photo: John Reign Abarintos / Unsplash We just chose to sit idly on our throne, And watch it crumble in front of our eyes. I recall the day our paradise died When it got tainted by this human stain; Many a tear for my b

The Pull

The Pull

She looked around quickly to see if anything was missing. There was a dark bulge on the floor which wasn’t in the room before, and she couldn’t recognize it, but for now, she let it be. It was too dark to see anyway. Her eye caught a book, it was sticking out of its usual place on the shelf. Shit. Behind the book there was a small pouch. She sighed in relief. He didn’t take the runes. The pouch was heavy in her hand, and, after removing it from its place, she saw that there w

Days of our fathers

Predictably Woeful

Predictably Woeful

When fear, pain, and anguish seem too godlike to vanquish, The fruits they produce overpower light’s source, And its beams are obstructed by the cruel walls constructed, With sole purpose of hindering love’s divine course. Photo: Design Ecologist / Unsplash Further bruising and shaking bare souls that are breaking, The senseless misfortunes at pure heart’s expense, So predictably woeful in all eyes but the hopeful, For a cycle must stagnate for a new to commence. Good i

Hitgirl

Hitgirl

She went outside and, on her way back, opened the wrong door. She didn’t realize that immediately, because the room she entered looked exactly the same as hers and probably all the other rooms in the motel. Carol didn’t bother locking the door since she only went out for a smoke which basically meant she did two stupid things at once. This recklessness made her sort of infamous among her colleagues who constantly predicted that one day it would get her in trouble; it baffled

No longer that kind of person

No longer that kind of person

Everybody is fast asleep, and I'm not planning on disturbing them They can stay as long as they like. I would ask them to leave, but I'm no longer that kind of person. I've learnt to pay the utmost respect To the choices that others have made To the desires that others may have. So I'll leave them exactly as they are – cast across beds and dining room tables with their mouths wide open, spit dribbling down their beautiful chins. They are my very best friends. We'r

Fragile Dreams

Fragile Dreams

I am but a dream. Elusive as the years going by, fragile as love, light as a breeze, silent as butterfly’s wings, irresponsible as a fool, and playful as a child. What more do you want from me? I’m here because you summoned me. After all, you can’t blame me for your own shortcomings. What more do you want me to do? I’m here because you envisioned me. After all, you can’t be upset with me because I’m not as grand as your imaginings. What more do you want me to s

A-wake

A-wake

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”, Or so they say. Is this a limitless proverb? Does it apply to all? Or does it cunningly avoid Those who reject the idea of An all-powerful being That watches over? Are we just TV channels? Does our content depend on the level of oxygen in our lungs? Does it vary in accordance with the level of serotonin in our GI tract? Can it go in reverse? Who’s willing to find out? Could you check my metabolism for residual paranoia?

Bitter

Bitter

It was the worst coffee she’d ever tasted and she’d once tried the one made from weasel shit. The brown sludge slowly making its way down her throat made her think of that hot and humid summer when their son was conceived, only it wasn’t coffee she’d been drinking then. It was good old American whiskey whose bitterness was so much more welcome. She frowned at her cup, but said nothing, choosing instead to keep drinking. If nothing else, it would wake her up nicely. A pigeon f

Transcendence

Transcendence

When I was a child we slept in shared hotel rooms, tunnelled together, my sister and I in one bed, mother and father occupying the remaining space. A fire alarm at three a.m, shaken awake by rough hands, sleep still threading through veins. Feet hastily tangled through pajama legs, dressing gowns gathered and tied unevenly, shoes on the wrong feet. I imagined smoke, thin, delicate, the kind that left my sister's mouth during a cigarette. Creeping under doors

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