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Inhale Before your mind is set ablaze; Before the world becomes a serpent; Wound around your throat Exhale when that evil Finally slides away And falls around your feet; Winding back Through the grass As just a dream
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Originally posted on Raja's Insight: Between words he raged With insides wrung Firm, to their final gust ? Heaving With all his might The verses stalled Cold In the binds of his throat ? A repulsive silence hailed Ushering all kin To the roads Of shame and dismay ? Heaving With mountainous veins His urge…
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I threw open the windows and doors With a fluttering pulse Enthralled, by empathy’s sweetened song The song That lived and lied within me, That warm melody The one I’d never betray I threw open the windows and doors And was met by a jeering gale Of debris and splinters Now the doors swing open…
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Somewhere in the expanding past Are the scorched yellow plains Where I’ve shed Precious seconds of youth That misery was lost Beyond the edge of a forest; Where the rays of tomorrow’s riches Shine through, Now and then
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On empty days like this The skies can burn red, Glowing With the ancient artform of carnage During precious moments The earth can erupt Into hulking columns Of mud and shrapnel One morning Can spill into a century of blood, Tearing full lives to pieces, By their flimsy roots
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The eyes of tomorrow are upon us Wherever we stumble; Scribbling every name, For every unanswered crime Those eyes Are never far behind, Whenever we rush to bury Any trace of our guilt
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These days She emerges in watercolors; Set free From her dreamless sleep She spreads her roots Through today’s fertile ground Beneath the honest rays, Of a new and watchful sun
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The earth is alive Pulsing with the fury of millions With a tapestry, Of ireful sons and daughters The earth is alive It quakes with every voice, Shouting down the wicked Wherever they arise
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I’ve reached a plain After a long and rugged spiral From a heavenly perch There are rows of grass Craning for the sun; Shielding the horizon As I cut through their maze Of towering shadows Will their secretive blades Turn to tall ever-greens, Or return me To the cold hard sprawl of concrete?
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People are always writing on his skin, Scrawling short proverbs And he lets them After all, their words can do no harm Someday, there will be no more Unclaimed skin And they’ll blot each other out As they bury him In their frantic swirls of ink They’ll scrap and they’ll scrawl Until he’s slipped from…
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