Qalb

the one that inebriated, the one that killedthe Pitcher that held the most misleading winebe buried away in Rumi’s field of what no tomb claimed, nor held by a shrinethe amphora that grew the most elegant rosewilted by world’s hands, yet watered by thine resonated and broke as fate chosethe archaic vessel that fell on

Epistle III

Bruised by the yoke of emotions Containing you in the eyes of sacrednessReminiscing you in black and whiteEnshrining you in my skipped heartbeats Battling the rubescent aroma of grief Laying under the russet memory of youFantasizing you hang in roses and lettersFinding you drip in red ink from one Braving the turbulent tides of silence

Tempest

See it’s only May at time’s sidewhere does the sun then hideit covers my vermillion heartthe duvet of a snow, that snows inside Hear, somewhere a violin criedits note, has been tongue tiedit sounds like chopin’s artthe falling of a snow, that snows inside Look, my clarity has diedits grave, my mourning cannot decideit smells

Epistle II

This night is inkmy wakefulness is a quillour void is endless papermy heart is paper weightthis poem is a scented envelopemy eyes are melted waxdawn is a sealI write, I write and I writeto youto your heartto hands that thaw the cold waxto your mind to decipher our wrinkled voidto your insomniato your evetomorrownight will

Epistle I

I have meditated youday after daynight after nightyear after yearhope after hopedespair after despairafter brief eras of forgetfulnessafter indefinite times of remembranceamidst the chaos of beingamidst the peace of escapismthrough etched memoriesthrough imagined anecdotesin the middle of lifein the middle of nothingin the middle of everything I have meditatedBeyond redemptionBeyond faithfulness to selfBeyond the law

If hope was a Tangible

If hope was a tangible And your senses weren’t coveredBy a plastic of despair How your senses would have been colouredBy the hopes of your share If hope was a tangibleIt would be…Well hear like finding a written note somewherelike a flower gently tucked in the hairlike a stranger offering a chairlike making a spontaneous

Clone No # 1870

Today too was a clone of all the Yesteryears I’m a clueless scientist, I’m a pending listLike an ever chained wrist, or a clenched fist Or young’s experiment, all fringes the sameOr a chronic resentment, its timid flame Prison time, nursery rhymeHanging chime, monotonous crime Clone of YesteryearsClone of unnamed fearsNow another clone appearsHow another

…

which metaphorcould possibly complimentthe harmat the centre of heartat the centre of everything paper cutting skin over bonerawwithout errorfirst sight of a body decorated in coffintoo stillwhite, without colourinsanity on a road, with a touch of humantoo gone burnt moths in summerburnt window paneswinter and its poetical sorrows, no rather black thread in a candleblacker

Treachery

I’m a Treachery of the shadows of wordsA Thief of the fort of impressionsA Swindler of the city of emotionA Beggar in the streets of poetryA Hermit of the forest of rhymesA Killer under the bridge of meaningA Typist of the hallway between the linesA Treachery…A Treachery of the psychotic alphabetsA Messiah of the unborn

One Sip Of Euthanasia

Grief has come to visit for the last time.This time in the robe of a bleary memory.It sits in the corner of my tongue-tied room.It eventually starts to smell like a fossil of my sickly fate.Grief suddenly rips the robe off of its ballooning heart.And a toddler with crusted feet runs into the asthmatic air