Tatters of trust

The blades of betrayal cut deep,
Through the fabrics of the heart

A world never the same again
Contrastive, a true self revealed

The hypocritical roses of love,
Lying in these webs of deceit,

Lured by soft words of a smooth tongue
To be broken at the cliff of bliss

Now, fallen to the dark world of the unforgiving,
A vindictive soul garbed in tatters of trust

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The prisoner’s creed

The past defines not my present,
Even though its shadow,
Dark like a moonless night,
Tries endlessly to devour my illuminated soul

But rather, like the stars,
My honest deeds shine bright now,
That even in the wake of my sorrows,
I look back,

now and tomorrow,
At the man I was,
The man I am now,
The man I want to become,

And will, God be my guide,
Surely be…

Grains of rice

We were grains of rice in a sack,
By a hand we were pulled out,
Cast upon the earth,
That we may bear more grains

And now, we grow differently,
On soft soils and hard rocks,
During warm days and cold nights
A dawning harvest we wait

The epitome of a dreamer

From smoke of random thoughts,
The world as it should be
Burning, a fire of invention

The pen wets the paper,
Smudges of a dark ink,
The calligraphic mastery of art

Following strokes of fine brushes,
On stretched surfaces of white canvas
The coloured sunsets of oil pastels

This, the epitome of a dreamer
The long bars holding,
And glass walls reflecting the mountains a far

Searching within particles of ether
The knowledge of outgrowth
Sieved through the many minds over time

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Fallen king

The dusty lobes of your eyes,
Dark news of a king’s wellness they carry
To the masses,
On raven wings of a light tongue

Broken, the spirits of her citizens,
Surrounded by enemies of blades and chariots,
Camping under the hollow moon

And before dawn,
Shall they throw rocks of flames,
To the sky walls of this city,
Commencing, the day between jaws of desolation

Mothers shall run,
Hidden,  faces of their cherished daughters,
Behind loincloths of their ashes
And sons, besides their fathers,
The rising spirits of the dead

How easy it is to set fire on a pine forest?
So easy it is, to seize a city whose king lies,
Covered in wool and animal skin,
Fighting the inviting winter of an after world

The place where time defines no history
But an abyss of oblivion
A throne without a heir,
And a name,  to vanish like smoke

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Blanket of depression

The shallow pool of pleasure
Florescent flowers of wicked deeds
stinking, the soul of a lost man

Covered in creams of perfumed oils,
Smelly clots of an afternoon sweat
Dyed, his shreds of the heart

He walks head high around a street corner,
Fine silk, white, the dusty toes of yesterday’s journey,
Towards a secret brothel of his habituation

Left and right, a foolish eye
Dropping fifty cents for a second,
Behind tattered curtains in a down town

Onto his bare chest,
Shooting rays of the sun,
Through tiny holes of grass covering

His mind yells in the darkness,
But clouds of desire rain fast and loud
Screening perfectly, the screams of elation

Time after thirty seconds,
Eyes wide open to a beautiful family,
A cherished daughter and kind wife,

Sudden, calm, the storm of desire
Worthless, the art of slippery,
Through, the thin walls of disgrace

Lying before, the mirrors of regret
Shattered, pieces of a broken trust
And now, covered in this blanket of depression

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Days engraved into the calendar

Some days are deeply engraved into the calendars of our lives. Like markings on wooden furniture,  I imagine carpentry of a fine artist,  “God of course” or whatever you think controls the wheel of time.

Anyway, carefully, He marks the edges of each date. The rounds of an eight or the lines that make a four. Crafting them so well, that parts of our souls are pinned onto these digits. Like shreds, but pieces of our hearts.

We all mostly say that those are just memories. But yet, sometimes it does feel more. Like each thought appears real.  Almost like reliving that day, event, or moment.

Sometimes you take pleasure in the sweetness of that memory. You feel like its a déjà vu.  The sounds, weather, or the feel of fog on your skin.

Quickly, your mind races to that date. Your hands run smoothly on the imaginary markings and edges of a smile slowly appear on your face. That date could be your wedding, day of your child’s birth or anything. And this I call beauty of the human mind.

But unfortunately, this same mind, slips back to a dark date. Sometimes,  an unfortunate loss, accident, rape, and more. We know them. And we dread them.

Some say that those things we love most reflect things we fear. Some convince themselves that they fear nothing. And yet, they actually love some things.  Others that they don’t love, and yet again fear some things.

Anyway, I myself have my dates. Some I smile, others I frown. And yet, most days, I really do frown a lot.

So you wonder why?

Well its simple. My older brother asked me once, “what did we do to God to take both of our parents?” I was young, and now am grown. And that QUESTION resonates loudly in my mind now that I can think freely.

I can make a list of all things I would have enjoyed doing with my parents. And I can’t write a list of things that i would do without them. But well, we only live once. And THAT bothers me most.  My brothers and I will NEVER have that EVER.

So I grew up hearing different reasons why everything happens. And I can tell you, none justifies being orphaned at an early age where grownups convince you about how your parents went to work and never returned. Or living in some beautiful place in the skies? And because you are young, you do actually believe them. Can you imagine the feeling when you come realise that you have missed quite a lot? Why in the skies and not here to teach me how to shave?

Anyway, this is why I frown and tend not to love so much but assume love for only a few things, setting my self targets to bury my loud thoughts, and likely pass onto another world if there is.

And yet I should say,  I do smile just like you. Because, despite growing up without parents, I do have one now. She took us in and gave us a home. And to that am really glad but won’t write about her today. May be another time.

So I say, this world a crazy place, blessing those that it has broken.

Robe of nobility

You watch and admire,
This robe of nobility

A man of superiority
weighed by eyes of the old

But,

I am just a lamb for slaughter
On burning pieces of wood

Between tongues of blue flames, That they die before I do

Or rather,

Before that shiny edge of the knife,
Slices through my bare neck

And yet,

These known dangers foreseen,
But shadowed by my self interests hidden,

Behind this robe you like
A man just like you

Delighted by pieces of shiny metals,
And comfort of woolen beds,

Enjoying pleasures of flesh,
And scented rooms filled with flowers,

Before tables of spiced meat,
And golden cups of wine

But yet,

I am noble as you think,
And indeed enjoy the warmth of this robe,

To sweat and bleed for toils than myself
The beautiful world of happiness
And stereo echoes of laughter,
Celebrating a life well lived

A love that flew away

Swans once flew,
Over blossoming red roses
And their tainted white feathers,
On broken wings of marriage

The bruises of a first love,
A fall in a summertime
On springs of frozen tears

The lover’s castle by the river of memories
And buried emotions of a past,
Covered in a large painting by the hallway

That hearts bled,
Eyes watered, and skins, sweaty,
Our pathetic efforts to mend the burning bridge

So now, strained by the wrinkles of age,
We stare through these broken glasses,
Our wishful thoughts, carried by the mountain winds
To the land of the never was

That epitomes of our youthful fantasies, 
Lying under olive trees
Living among the stars,
We may savour,
The last smiles, and breath

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