Why must I speak, fair one?
For I must only be here
and near you to know your color.
Let me trace only my eyes.
I’m figuring your splendor.
And when the key clicks,
will thee know thine secrets?
I keep them behind my lips
and I swallow them down,
only to gaze for and ever.
I sing these words now
with pen and ink and leaf.
I write and string my song for you.
It is the loudest quiet—
I am the book and you the keeper.
Whilst the atmosphere hums violently,
my irises engraved with a spell,
I am unable to look away from thee;
an aura I cannot escape.
Even now, my mind, a prisoner.
But when I must speak, fair one,
for it is you who must be my undoer.
Figure me, if you must.
Break my gaze, remind my soul,
so that you may know thine color.
Categories:
undoer, desire, longing, love, metaphor,
Form: Free verse
Years passed, withal you stood ascendant.
Though many were their concupiscent sexual enticements,
Heretofore you remained earnest in unassailable chasteness.
Little did you know that your undoer is ready to strike at you.
At first sight, your heart intermitted;
On hearing her voice, your soul got excited.
At first felt exhaled breath, you veins got scorched.
At first touch, your mind got into nigrification.
Sensationally, you were ready to grant all my thoughts.
Why just a whistle could kill a soldier like you, you could not fathom.
After things happened, thence your enchainment emerged.
You turned slave but to the lustfulness.
The sight, breath, flesh, and touch became lords over you.
Without regrets, they pleasantly caress you to go against the Lord’s wills.
Now, whence cometh your redemption?
Voltaire says, “...a man is free the moment he wants to be”.
Only you can free yourself from your self-created incarceration
Set yourself liberated from the captivity of your negativity.
Categories:
undoer, sin, wisdom, woman, women,
Form: Classicism
Oh! Patience, My Love.
Have hit both my eyes an unknown storm --
the undoer of my marry Spring,
is beneath my brow a gushing form,
does a drench'd cheek to a yearner bring.
My auguries, that once blessed with love,
have gales become, for a trial of
the touchstone of my faithful shape,
loyal shadows that the future rake;
does my pain emit a cunning drape,
that when praise of love, the evils shake;
still, endure this, to a phase submit,
but, wit, my wit --is my patience fit,
are my gardens, for these storms to reave,
the fruits to come of better degree;
Or will steadfast be love, if believe,
in shade of the fruitless, standing tree.
Maybe, the grandeur of love is not grand
unless we bear our share of pains at hand.
R.N.Khan, © 2012
Categories:
undoer, courage, dedication, devotion, grief,
Form: Rhyme