Conceived to enhance survival
yet evolved as a parasite.
’twas born to serve,
yet enslaved the very body.
The circle of my life,
will not be drawn
the other way round.
I am not,
for its purpose.
’tis for mine.
If not, without it
I am quite fine.
I have become
Like a dam that
Even when it’s full
Will not release the water
Instead I wait
Even at the risk of bursting
For the water to evaporate
Waiting to go dry
And then I wonder
Looking at these cracks
Was there ever even
Any water to hold?
your touch so soft
beneath thin skin.
the dreams in
those innocent eyes,
my heart it skips
over every doubt.
realization welcomes another smile
and however one may choose to try
there’s no escaping such innocence
and then soon the music too plays.
this child is sly
but so are sweet,
little girls.
glimpses of cunning mischief,
then a goddess dancing
on her god.
but the heart still longs
a while, little longer.
till all her fire
satisfies his gaze.
and perhaps hold back,
till just before a dance
but then that first sin,
of a kiss happens.
there’s no leaving now
silence may heave.
once more the air
it is nostalgic.
the music fades into a déjà vu
tell me, did we dance too ?
now its such,
a beautiful day.
the music,the waves they play.
see that spotlight
in the sky.
under the night
and her moon,
why its the stars
and the blue black sky.
you throw a stone
up into the air,
without looking
to where it strayed.
across the fields
the fog is smoking,
in the scent of the air.
sounds of an orchestra,
frogs & critters playing
and in some corner,
a group of birds too.
in the deep silent lake
the blue sky sits still.
in between conversations
moments pass by.
just like an old memory
the stone just slips by.
only a glimpse
without a clue,
is what you
manage to catch.
ripples of that memory
in time they trace
back to you,
silent & patient
if you can wait.
Whilst from over there,
these untouched ignorant eyes,
let their tongues slip out
blasphemous songs of poetry
and the eccentric fools
they paint scenes of life
and love in yellow.
A death by my finger tips,
my eyes will soon be red.
feelings blue, but yellow!
The winds they must be soft,
as she floats down to the ground..
Her eyes are fading away,
who has left? in her mind,
neither a song nor any poetry.
I am rooted here,
not trespassing and
far away from
all your concerns.
why then,
does your autumn
have to take away
one by one,
all of my leaves ?
~
A delicate balance
of fragile intimacies
held by passion from
the depths of complications
as each in its turn, looks away.
In the darkness there
sparkles a sprinkle of dust.
to only flicker around,
but soon settles down
in time, even rust
is but the color of skin.
but the rhyme
is now to die,
when words betray
hope, in a lie.
the mind makes
the mind breaks.
the rhythm changes,
sometimes we fall
out of a tune.
and our minds
when we make,
a rhythm is caught
while we fall,
into a tune.
when the listening stops,
so do the songs.
sing a new song,
before the heartbeat stops.
How peaceful it is
the nights, the silent
empty roads and the
leaves, that are yellow.
How silent they are
the nights, the long
empty roads and the
leaves, that are dead.
The meetings, the greetings. The hunting. The cheer, the cheers. The smiles, the laughter. The songs, the singers. The dance, the dancers. The talks. The stupid, the great. The good, the vulgar. The beauty, the beast. The stroll, the laughter; the dogs. The return, the rest, the talks. The rest. The waves, the lights, the years. The memories.
Under the sky
beautiful, bright &blue
for some souls
life, still ain’t
all that true.
At what point
do you then break,
when really you never
were stitched together, ever.
waiting to tear asunder
just for comforts sake.
Concerned, when they come
in torn threads of time
let them find their hints,
to clothes they might wear.
In bits & pieces
scattered & unsound.
to patch you up,
they insist and come
from all around.
To keep you together still,
be grateful, they are around.
you better not
cry, wail or even
make another sound.
What tickles the heart
or when it cringes,
in the blood
that now flows,
most freely so
words too flow.
For the one
that is thought,
how could it compete,
with the one that pours?
organic!nsanity 