Flesh and light Bone and stone Are same, similar; a synonym Of everything
I gazed into the night Fragmented by the city lights Knifing the dreams dead in their tracks
Scalped thoughts Hanging from the cumerbund Of the comedian Laugh with the wind
There is no framework for fame Nietzsche is not a name And all that I know of shame Came from the fingers that blame; Et tu? Fuck you Bad words don’t exist At all For thoughts know not their origin But only the sin Of being The way they are
Broken mirrors Cannot mend the man And broken man Never has a mirror
Everything is going to disappear soon And the leftover void shall know There is nothing known as nothingness For even in silence the silence shall grow
Death, do not cry I know; you are no one’s friend But that does not make you; a foe Like all who have been and are being swept away Like a clove leaf upon a current You too are destined by design To sow and grow; sorrow That abandoned thistle tree Which all passes and pretends not to see
Death, do not cry When your choices go wrong There are so many voices asking To add another verse to their swan song But you know as do I That music is sweet only for so long And it starts with no cymbals and shall end with no gong
Death, do not cry People do care about you a lot You may not always be the fountainhead But you are almost always an afterthought And we may not think of you as we breathe Or when we play the games of Holy Land But we do rehearse our union every night Though not all of us understand
Death, do not cry We shall meet for once and forever But before that I must ask an honest, humble favor: Of all the places for us to meet And greet, if you could visit me when I am fast asleep Then there shall be nothing for me to weep As I skip; the curtain call of my every emotion And be like a nameless raindrop falling into an aimless ocean
I close my eyes
And the dewdrops upon my palate
Rise, like an ocean left unattended
On hot stove
Left to seethe and boil
Fold and uncoil;
Echoing towards an inconsequential eternity
Where nothing rhymes
Beneath the repeating waves
Washing themself at the shore
At the feet of a silent, silent kingdom
Rooted in reminiscence
Of a homemade horizon promised
Upon an unpromised path
There the shriveled hearts sprout as mushroom
In an endless cortege
Moving in stillness
Like taste upon the tip of tongue
And snail upon the lips of spine
An ode to the essential
Both the dirt and the divine