Halt

There is this imperfection, this almost “too soon to see” the light can blind, the path unseen

Frightened of the tightening of the hands that take a second to understand

What it takes of you to let these fingers slip the sand

The tracings and the viewings of the child

“Why is the night dark, daddy?”

As if innocence knew, but protected

As if no one knew yet perfected

Their wishing according to their needs

Their proceedings a revealing concealing of the self

And its arms, the shelf and its harm, the cave and its charm

And I neglected in you, what took of me a decade to renew

Age has nothing to do with it.

Advertisements

Wakefulness

Crippled by this insensitive take on what surrounds
These surroundings

Have you ever been so close? Parted the biscuit symmetrically, only for it to be submerged in coffee that is meant to be just THAT, detached from the tips of your fingers

The sea of your worries, the foam bubbling, trouble lurking

For a way in

These attires

“Nearly had fucking everything!”


I am dribbling with the sanctity of life

Whirling in the wind that has befriended my weak condition

Only in my favour will it be, until I seek denounced salvation

Of the kind that requires of you wakefulness, piercing focus

The lack thereof, musings, deserving diversions

Had I known all my deviations would lead me back to You

I would’ve been a lot less fearful, of everything else

A handful of sand slipping, happily, serenity now

In all that falls in place

With Your remembrance.

Places in faces

IMG_20171124_001725“Do they not think that their words have weight?”

There has got to be a face that is read for what it is
Should time really account for innocence lost?

I mean, to lose that which you left behind in childhood and go back to it again, aware

God knows how much I’ve stored, meaningful in its meaningless description
And how much I’ve discarded, only to be met with it again, in another form

A feather in the stream
Trying to regain in flight what shed it

“The mysterious weakness of men’s faces”

“Smooth and smiling faces everywhere, but ruin in their eyes.”

Had I expression enough, to walk you through it

It’d feel like I’ve robbed you of His revelation

My bones shiver, my voice trembles, as this thought becomes concrete

Pale as dusk, disillusionment; two-fold

Subjective and objective truths

are not enough

Scarlet

A self-editing mechanism, mutually shredding a guitar

The blues of it, the itch, the ache in running sandpaper through infant skin

The different ways I come back to you, the same way you receive me

Too many humans, their vagueness a stream you drink from, time and again

The embezzler in you they think is rogue; you qualify as honest

What is dishonesty but honesty to few?

What is honesty but diplomacy to the masses?

I changed the day you looked at me odd when I picked the cherry with the longest stem

You thought it was a no-brainer I did so for the knot, just a tease, but I didn’t

At the time, the only thing with a knot was my tongue, yet, I wasn’t tongue-tied

Let me walk you through the irony of it…see…the deeper the roots of the stem, the kinder the juice to spill when you pull it out

‘cherries belong to the rose family’

The big five

The most economic, yet the deadliest

If you can’t kill the culprit, at least get your hands on his partner in crime

The brighter scarlet, the sour in tasteless sweet

An old encyclopedia you just dusted off, and put back on the shelf

After all, wasn’t there a dead rose in it? Ah, but its fragrance remains…

 

Subtle

The smoothest crimes, are perfected subtly
Less asphyxiated, too little to be this much
Punctuation marks, shouldn’t be judged
Slamming doors shut, shunning the ambient
A hollow sand dune you dip your head in
And walk in, with your hands
I mean,
To be quite honest
Sometimes I walk for miles and still wonder where everyone’s at
And other times, I look straight at you, without moving, and crumble
Fear of abandonment; and all you did was abandon
Attachment disorder; and all you did was pull and cut
Hold and slaughter
The wire that wasn’t meant to be touched
Or so it said
On the last note you left
After all,
Smooth crimes are subtle

The man in the sky

Your shape becomes transparent

Hands that spoke for you,

Now linger in this demise

Leave no clue, maybe tomorrow

Hope is one filthy bastard, isn’t it?

Maybe the day after, maybe never

You are bartered, material for sentiment

Word for word. You are not ready

My trademark is the wind. What’s yours?

Kind of like, a crying violin

The man in the sky takes credit for

Borrowings, these. Carefully spilling unto your sponge-like swaying