Our paths were never meant to intertwine,
like the thunder that never strikes a spot twice.
Those charmed paths went on a connect on the labyrinths of labour.

The picture of the stuff in that luggage is still clear like crystal –
all other impedimenta stuffed up with wraps of flashes,
flashes born out of the signals that grew into circumstantial flip-flops.

Like a dogged locomotive, the flip-flop is weak and steady,
foraying into impossible turfs, silly wishes, and zealous passion.
Alas, the words always end on the on side of the flip-flop.

Here are two creatures in the dark, each having no lamp to aid the other.
There are feet with dead expedition and a light that refuses to be buried.
If only you shut the window of your heart, not leave it open with flip-flop surrounded by wild flowers.