Poems
by me.
Today we escape
he gazes upon the openness with eyes of devoid
into the beacon’s gate that cuts the city light,
like that of a delicate kite amidst turbulent winds,
tugged to harbor but ever so hard on resistance.
he wants to escape this relentless gilded age,
by a whispering voice to lull him away.
his rugged look does not deceive me from lack of fragility.
for such silence mirror to that of falling rain
with every trickle sends an effervescent sound.
a sound of subtlety,
absent from ordinary depiction.
frozen in time, I sit listening.
both are hesitant,
and at times, consumed by silence.
but both have never been so fulfilled.
Patchwork
at daylight, he is being pulled by chains.
at night, he yields to hand-sewed straps and buckles.
he awakens to a preset clockwork,
and the cycle continues again.
lines of powder and elixir of death,
he struggles every moment
he wriggles for every breath.
he feels invigorated by what money can buy
sex on poles, and love from a blue-eyed
the last grain of sanity assists him in corresponding directions.
Though, knowing what to expect, he feels nothing.
He is immune to this series of routines,
which are intricately woven in a patchwork.
He becomes yet, another addition to the pre-designed pattern.
Strangerous
he was stylishly shabby. the shabbier the better.
ripped, torn, worn, run-down jeans, shirt, chucks.
simple and unkempt. that’s what it was.
hair hang softly across the face, just right.
everything was just right.
eyes sunken but slight lift in one cheek.
a peculiar anonymity. mysterious indeed.
he is mine in thoughts, search, and words.
through speculation, I become versed.
he belongs not here. not there. cant place where.
everywhere I suppose.
this stranger is dangerous.
suppose i’ll call him, strangerous.
how silly. cross that out.
Moonlight Sonata
the depths of night mirror dim light
what darkness bequeathed her
might she break from the dawn
and partake in the sound of requiem.
as she gazed upon the moon
she hears the distant sonata.
the contrast is seemingly clear
patience, she thought, and listens
the keys, the forms,
had beautified the composition.
she consumes the sound
suddenly fill with joy
for she knew,
no matter how contrasted,
there is always a sound
to compliment the other.
Simplicity
simplicity is seeing the rise of the morning sun.
it is the melody that transcends an air of collectedness.
it is practical in its form yet extraordinary in respect.
to others it can be undesirable, but to you it means life.
it is valued by the wise and undermined by the ignorant.
simplicity does not imply lack of knowledge or conscience
rather its the ability to transform them into pure wisdom.
as Dreamers journey the world in search for it,
the rest remain in an absolute state of contentment.
Muse
every artist has a muse.
Within that muse lies the perpetual movement.
And every movement is protruding in the artist’s mind.
And every time the movements draw near,
the artist’s work exudes radiance and life.
But what happens if the movements one day stop.
Will it be the end of inspired art?
Such fate is never part of a great artist
who ceaselessly aspire to be an inspirator
Unfinished Canvas
an unfinished canvas with shapeless contour
expressions dim slightly; wanting a bit more,
a bit more love and honesty,
a bit more you and less of me,
a bit more peace and none the rage,
a bit more music for one to escape,
a bit more time to erase mistakes,
a bit more faith in people we must take,
a bit more life for a friend that is gone,
a bit more truth from one that is wrong,
a bit more empathy to stir for more change,
a bit more ways for us to rearrange,
the unfinished canvas needing a bit more
to fill in the lines of the shapeless contour
