Do not let me die
In a hall with white walls
Near windows overlooking
The world’s asylum
Filled with paper praying people
Watering themselves
Towards an early spring
Author: psk16.pk@gmail.com
Pulp
I dream of dry oceans
And suckling on burnt milk
From the seeds long sowed
Upon the shores of homeless towns
Waiting to flower
Once more
At the sunrise
Luminaries
I lean against the firmament
A droplet of escaped life
Weaned from the threshold
Crowded with corpses:
Waiting to enroll and muse within their scholastic attire
The drama that began with naked men
Wandering across blue deserts
Looking for stars
Falling, from the firmament.
Blueprint
Life begins and ends
As a circle
But the sad thing is:
Most of us architects
Keep crying for corners
Verbatim
There is steel in my eyes
And the world with its tuning fork lies
Asking me to mourn along
Knows nothing
Of that cold, hard touch
For I am no maker nor master
But only a thinking man
One step away from disaster
Touchstone
Most people are nothing more
But a day older come the morrow
And that O mine Ache of Past
Is the cause of everyday’s sorrow
Through The Lips Of Living Ghosts
I live my life
Through those who lived before me
And triumphed,
For mine are eggshell victories
Inchoate brush strokes of the blind
Left behind, listening to the faceless sounds
Dreamt by dead branches and wayside stones
Alone in their darkness
Wherein all ashes intone
The pleasure of being burned alive
Only to never feel, another touch of life.
The Half Past
It was half past ten
In the broken clock
Light flooded from the bathroom
Vintage; as if streaming from another time;
A past not yet undone by dialysis,
I laid ankle deep in silk
The shawl around my neck and feet
Splitting me in two tragedies;
Naked and none, while
The feathers of my pillow whispered in their broken flight: “Do not close your eyes or all that you fear shall come alive”
There was something in those words
That left me speechless
And so I slept
Wide awake
Breathing only for breathing’s sake.
Merciful Maladies
There
Upon the white winter brow
Of an aged world
I stand, like a cliff
A black wound, unstitched,
Filed with crowfoot and claws,
Where my face without flesh
Lingers in iodine
So that under one pain I could forget
The origin of another
Saints Of The Cynics
How can you be so happy?
Asked the fools to the wise:
They said for we are people who do not believe in a paradise