Our presence is given to play,
in motion sans thought commotion,
cradling bliss in this form of clay,
drop dancing atop the ocean,
as moon’s pull magnetic holds sway,
our heart sips love’s magic potion.
God’s gong of Om pervades our form,
as spirit dances on our spine,
that drenched in bliss mists cool and warm,
nodes within begin to align,
at peace in the midst of this storm,
in stillness becoming divine.
Poised just before our maiden flight ~
God’s touch says it will be alright
I am but a voice, written down in ink,
the words I write, are about things to think.
In life we bear all sorts of things, each day,
some we need, in others we fade away.
The best source of truth, is forged by the battles fires,
beware the foolish man, entangled with the liars.
Inside ourselves, is history to be revealed,
the knowledge, of ourselves that’s been concealed.
The truths that’s in the darkness, the heart of man, you see,
the very part of self, will we ever be.
A mirror is but a reflection, eyes, the windows to the soul,
those who look inward, they will set a goal.
Discernment of good and evil, like day from the night,
inside themselves, they take a stand, put up a fight.
To put good in their heart, evil at their feet,
as they cast off the weights, that’s been so bitterly sweet.
To be born again, in their heart and mind,
now they stand in victory, Salvation they did find.
Is it so great to hear them everyday
Singing hosannas, playing harps for you?
And you’re not tired of sorting out their prayers
Not bored to see them trying to pursue?
And the concept of paradise, was it enough
Elaborated, or it could have been concealed
To an extent, because the plot seems rough
At least from what so far has been revealed
Is there the smell of summer breeze at morning,
Are there dewdrops on the leaves of apple tree?
A scent of coffee when my darling says I'm coming,
And there she is, holding a tray for her and me?..
My dear Lord, I guess you’ve been endowed
With a sufficient amount of love and labour
To materialize among the clouds
Please let us live again, do us a favor
Don’t take away this little hope, my Lord
It’s in your power, though you could disclaim
Cause nowadays your world is rumbling with wars
Some of the victims may divulge your name.
Springtime facade shines on convivial tapestry,
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant vivacity
within sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes.
On luscious lips the petals of blooming lotus lie,
painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance,
designing narcissistic features of innate elegance
with the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued
by pervading pride of indomitable youth imbued.
On the withered canvas the wheels of time creep,
the spider of age weaves the web of wrinkles deep.
Weary eyes look forlornly at weathered wasteland,
wilted lips lose luster of lotus once lovingly grand.
Hedonist psyche refuses to accept the fated loss,
even when time comes for the last mile to cross.
What is a face if not a metaphor for trait panorama,
snapshot in beholder’s eyes of concealed charisma.
The shadows of the mind remain concealed,
time’s quiet veil upon wounds unhealed.
Treasured moments sleep in cloaked recess,
a history bound in silent darkness.
Two hosts bear witness, their truths untold,
hidden, unseen, by hearts grown cold.
Regrets spilled forth, like fractured glass,
unexplored journeys lost, they pass.
Divided hearts, once worlds apart,
tangled doubts pulling threads of the heart.
Twisted and stretched 'til bonds collapse,
shadows of the past, in the dark they lapse.
Judged
1.
They are all liars,
Talking about others
Behind their backs,
Thinking they are better.
2.
But everyone has
Their own faults.
They don’t see
The pain a person hides,
Just because they’re smiling.
3.
A day will come,
A day when they are judged
For all the things
They have done.
4.
All I feel for them is pity—
Pity for the words
They’ve spoken,
For the things
They’ve done.
5.
Everyone has
Their own flaws,
Yet they still judge
Others for theirs.
But I am no better
Than they are.
6.
I prefer words said to my face,
Rather than whispered behind my back.
They’re all hypocrites—
They smile at you,
Then stab you in the back.
They change colors
As quickly as a chameleon.
She may be a poor girl
Begging on the street
But she has a pretty face,
Like those you’d like to meet.
She’s just a beggar girl,
Having everything it takes
For a man to turn his head
And the world to lay their stakes.
She’s fit for the silver screen
For Forbes to make a claim,
She has, what it takes
To weaken a misogynist fame.
She is undiscovered
With undercover for clothes
She has the motion
Ramp walkers dream of most.
She has the smile
That can melt a frozen heart,
She has the style
Without fashion schooled art.
She may be poor
But rich in looks and appeal,
She may be a beggar
Yet her beauty she can’t conceal.
Navel to throat, a shining rod,
signals within, presence of God,
which in staid stillness we observe,
with zest and zeal and love and verve,
a secret we willingly share,
with fellow souls who care to pair
but in truth we fail to reveal,
the way magnetism makes us feel,
because it is a becoming
or we may say, a home coming.
Springtime facade shines
in embellished topography,
embroidered enshrined on
Monet landscape,
luminous
in effervescent elegance
with sparkle of blue lagoon
in dreaming ebullient eyes,
entranced,
and with lustrous lotus petals
of luscious lips
fervent,
painted on silken canvas
of magnetic countenance,
carved with narcissistic contours
of innate pride
with dormant Dorian Gray syndrome
subdued.
The sands of time
roll over wrinkled canvas,
winter twilight spider weaves
webs of facial furrows
of creased contentment,
empty eyes gaze,
forlorn
at weathered wasteland,
the lips of faded flower lose
passion patina,
enticing once,
hedonist psyche refuses
to gauge the grief of loss,
trapped in transient notion
sanguine,
for what is a face
if not a metaphor
for proclivity panorama,
the enduring snapshot
capturing mesmeric moments
in timeless frame
of concealed charisma,
contained.
A bouquet of shamrocks glisten,
they call magick;
Under a rainbow they sprout high;
This sky? Classic;
Golden sunshine adds to the glow,
What a vision;
Leprechaun’s pot hidden details,
mischief hails fun;
You think it’s found so you give chase,
rushing a field;
Met with just grass and a chuckle,
coin haul concealed.
The chromatic cords
of splendorous spring
embroider arcane art
on convivial tapestry
embellished elegance
dramatically drapes
the luminous landscape
of vibrant vivacity
as dream-drenched
blue lagoon
gets lashed
by idyllic eyelids
and
the lotus petals
of luscious lips
painted poignant
on silken canvas
of content countenance
the dulcet design
of narcissist facade
of innate pride
swathes furtively
the secret scars
of suppression syndrome
expunged.
The toiling time
revolves relentless
on convoluted canvas
etched with
fading felled leaves
of auburn autumn
in life consumed
while
the winter spider
weaves with strands
of twilight moments
the ordained web
with senile streaks
around hollow eyes
staring forsaken
at forlorn fringe
of weathered wasteland
as the lustrous lips
the fading flowers
lose withered
pristine patina
hedonist psyche
refuses to gauge
the grief of loss
the face morphs
into metaphor
for living panorama
captured by
the sanguine snapshot
of concealed charisma.
The deepest hole I’ve placed it in
and covered it with all that’s been.
Then beat upon that grave each day
in hope to make it go away.
I’m terrified that it will grow,
and so afraid somehow, you’ll know -
the secret I have buried deep.
The secret that I want to keep.
The thing that is the root of all
the reasons why I want to fall.
The reason why I’ve never been
able to give love back again.
I know that I should dig it up
and let you know my feelings but
instead, I’ll keep it locked inside…
the truth concealed within my mind.
"Truth shall always prevail",
... Or so I have heard.
It's merely been a year,
Yet, can't seem to recover.
Crying for help?
"Oof, grow up" they'll scoff.
Lo and behold!
The mask of deception... I found.
Been an open book for over a decade,
It Can't be that knackering to tell a lie to someone's face.
Aeons and aeons thereafter,
Pretending seems to have adjusted herself,
to my life with a knowing laughter.
"Heyy everything good?" they'd pry,
"Oh just wonderful", I'd smile and blatantly lie.
It has been a while you know,
Since I've seen the true face of reality.
Now that I yearn for it,
I just wanna get rid of this morality.
It's too late at this point,
Venturing further will make me paranoid.
To conclude this on a "factual" note,
This world houses wolves in sheep's clothes.
I twist and turn in my sleep,
Baffled by the fact of this mystery.
How in the universe were we blind,
To see the true nature of OUR kind.
I stand here,
And I solemnly declare:
There's a concealed reality,
Of which we remain unaware.
God will take care and so be happy
His forces are engaged in guarding
God may appear to be damn sleepy
But, pure Justice, He is rewarding
Every step that God makes wisely
Will take His devotees to safety
He will execute His duty precisely
All His ideals are superbly lofty
God never blunders in His action
He acts with the greatest vigil
He offers an excellent protection
To make our problems a big nil
He will inflict strict punishment
Supplying us Justice with skill
Peace for us, He will implement
And take away form life every ill
God when is approached by us
Will dress kindly all our wounds
He will arrange for the best bliss
All of us, He simply astounds.
Love hearts and scabby knees.
Dead flies and stinging bees.
Dirty nails and sweaty lips.
Fishnets with ragged slips.
Eyeholes in a hessian sack.
Pimples on a tattooed back.
Toys that she just can’t unpack.
Helen.
Secret Helen.
Lies from a mother’s heart.
Secrets that fell apart.
Beauty too divine to see.
As purple as a Judas Tree.
Singing from her cradle jail.
A baby crying weak and frail.
Giggle, breathe, inhale, exhale.
Helen
Splintered Helen.
An infantile brutalist.
A wide-awake somnambulist.
Mamma’s bile and Daddy’s fist.
A kiss, a slap a broken wrist.
She hides within a dark recess.
She dances with her own distress.
A monster wearing fancy dress.
Helen
Sacred Helen.
Fantasies of guilt and sin.
Concealed beneath a slab of skin.
Loathe the self and stunt the flesh.
Her impotence and spite enmesh.
To love the girl, she veils the face.
To save the world from its disgrace.
Before she leaves without a trace.
Helen
Shiny Helen.
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