Truth covered under nice manners,
polite gestures, benevolent expressions,
fine clothing, intellectual task,
shiny eyes and attractive smiles,--
the worldly tools
covering a grave vulgarity: naked truth.
For all our varnished hypocrisies
and polished make-believe demeanor,
truth must be uncouth, raw, even vulgar
in its original, pure form,
That’s why it’s repressed, condemned,
martyred, bled to death,
It’s after all
the common enemy of the
collective falsehood and fakery.
Her warm, embracing presence,
An entire sea of excitement
surging through her,
Her body decorated with joy,
Skin’s electricity-charged pores,--
a living palace,
And there I walked
bored, lonely and afraid
to feel safe, loved and cared.
The fire that ate peace,
It chucked out many rarities:
an old tree with a new nest;
a handwritten manuscript
without another copy;
the sole copy of an ancient book;
the wood that was charred
without manifesting
what was hidden inside,--
the beautiful statue;
the heart that got singed
and the canvas burnt;
the smile slaughtered
on innocent lips
that would have blossomed
a nobler, kinder place.
The fire going into the eyes,
blinding and burning the dreams,
The fire parching the flesh
and singing the soul,
The fire in our minds
smoldering forever
to burn the paradise
that was offered to us
by the lovely, smiling,
benevolent mother nature.
Feelings entwining, mingling,
twisting around each other,
holding out tendrils like creepers,
grasping each other’s soft stalks,
Like vines to soar higher.
To merge, to seep,
to crash into each other,
like sea waves on a beach.
Flowing together
to become something nobler;
to feel one’s presence
through the other.
The tired tailor,
Working on a short man’s coat
stolen by a tall man,
Laboring to make it fit the thief.
The tired tailor,
Working to mend a thin man’s coat
falling in the hands of a fat man,
Striving to cover naked corpulence
with little strip of cloth.
God the struggling tailor,
Fixing the misfits,
A tired and worn out tailor!
Those who can’t create,
they believe in destruction,
They don’t do much,
They create destruction at the most,
They rob others
of their rights to creativity.
Love at the spectrum’s lower end
would need something in return,--
a sweet-sour worldly barter,
But it’s still love,
the base model though.
Love at the spectrum’s upper end
would want nothing in return,
It just is,
Just selfless giving;
the top model;
pristine, pure, pricey.
