The aggrieved owner

 

The flames of her passion

trying to lick guilt and shame

from my face,

Screaming out her love,

Pouring out her entire essence

from her lovely soul.

 

Whose fault it was?

Did I simply allow her

to slip out of my grasp?

Did I simply let her drift away?

Did I put enough effort to retain her?

 

Maybe I failed,

Probably I’d have still failed

had I given all

and she would’ve succeeded,

For love can never be forced,

It drops like a ripe fruit

after a time,

I know this,

Still I mourn the loss of that kiss,

For it’s human to feel the pain

born of losing the things

that we suppose we own.

Rebirth

 

Facing the wildfires of life,

Walking through the soot,

leaving black footprints on the ashen floor,

Darkness swelling inside

widening the gulf between

dreams and reality,

Weariness pouring out of eyes,

Carrying the look and feel

of a wounded animal,

Billowing black-blue waves of pain

dragging their sharp prongs

through the heart to dredge

sorrows perfumed with sweetness.

 

Blackened snowflakes

slicing

through the softest parts.

 

Don’t wither completely, I tell myself,

Fragment thyself, make chambers,

So that even if you die in one part,

you may start growing in some other,

where anger will soften into acceptance,

leaving you hopeful enough

to see the miracle of sunshine

on a freezing, stormy day.  

Evolution

 

Rewiring myself to see

the beauty of wild flowers,

acknowledge the gentle welcome of trees,

hear the friendly whisper of breeze,

enjoy the songs of birds,

listen the holy whispers of love

cutting through unholy noise.

Overhauling my material existence

to make it sublime and pure like soul,

To serve as a link between earth and sky,

Bending towards light

with a promise of love.   

Truth, the enemy

 

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.  

The palace pauper

 

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

 

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.

The creeper

 

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.