This vengeful sky is becoming darker
for your defeat brews it more
breathe in this air
let it turn to a slow poison
let it remind you
of the hubris, you held to
let it show you the ashes
of your victories
for when the time comes,
just breathe out and destroy.
a breeze of guilt,
smells like remorse
in the morning
the descending fog camouflages
the slaying of the whispers
in a city this big,
everybody is a slave
skies watch patiently
to choose their meals:
the unfortunate and weaklings.
they are all up from sleep:
nature’s most intelligent creature.
the madness shall now float.
A kaleidoscope
with broken mirrors.
Does it feel lonely?
as the lights slice
and bleed from the edges
of the shattered glasses,
corrupting a lifelong symmetry.
Solitary verses,
torn from a stolen diary,
Do they feel lonely?
as they float over a cold river,
to be never seen
or read again.
You, writing there alone,
imagining things never seen.
Do you feel lonely?
when your thoughts ferment into intoxicating verses,
leaving you behind in a monotonous universe
that doesn’t give a shit about your existence.
you are aloof,
as you tread down this slippery
perfumed mud,
embracing the river of life
that has forgotten
changing courses,
a long way time ago.
A flood is a dream for it.
a storm is like an unexpected orgasm.
Still, you tread down happily,
in your custom-made suits
wearing hand-stitched shoes.
You like others,
shall submerge in the sea
near a voiceless estuary
that amasses countless
unspeakable bodies
If only, you would have rattled those cages
and bled in those sharp-edged
rooms, embracing your individuality
then resilience would have blessed you
with fear; and believe me a little fear
with a pair of eyes either blooms to courage
or dawns to a beautiful death.
An abandoned house,
with the chronicles of death painted on the walls.
In the shadows of its doom, the Reaper lurks
and watches over with merciless eyes.
Waiting for the Omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
for he shall devour the soul,
without a question.
Everything that he touches,
transcends from space and time,
to the spaces between the space.
He has never loved a flower
or held a newborn,
he has never cried or even laughed
and now he is dying slowly.
Of all the lives he has taken,
the Reaper is now slowly dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether It is painful
or whether is beautiful,
but it is sad.
It should be.
It rained that night,
for the air was a sinful blend
of your pleasant smell
and the fresh petrichor.
In the sheets, we drowned for eternity,
like bare mermaids and mermen, making love
in the darkest hours to rage the calmed sea.
We forget our meaningless existences,
the two vagrant souls found a home within each other.
as I traced your curves;
your hair leaned to hide
your shyness from being naked,
as the incessant clouds
hides the modesty of the sky.
For your adorable smile,
I waited until the dawn.
the sunshine crowned your beauty
while gracing your modesty in the morning.
but you disrobed the curtains
and yourself slowly to threw away the crown
of beauty
and at that moment I knew,
It was going to be the longest night of ours.
Lightness descends
in my head
as a brief vision of yours
reincarnate within me
you were not just a beauty
last night,
you were a poetic illusion
an art made of small verses,
brewing sinful temptations
and I read you very slowly
like one of my own written creations.
for I have been a starving reader
all my life
and you were finally
an end to my starvation.
Writings to Heaven 