To speak Without being heard With words like wind Asleep in windchimes, To be far away, breathing in a distant past dyed sepia and smelling of crushed leaves: The aroma of time dried through the ages, To taste a fruit away from the tongue And let it linger in a seedless ecstasy On each pair of lips In every burnished breath between the lungs To weave sunlight In the skin of dewdrops And bare a rainbow upon the floor Brought home to a full circle To smile at the madness of it all And mean it in the mirror of mind Grassroots enveloping Memories I cannot find Now leads me to believe That life with all its thorns and petals Is more in the act of living Than waiting for it to settle
I look at the wrong things and cry But tears are taboo, aren’t they? Like used razors or sandpaper towel Or the last page of a living novel And yet I do, not because I cannot avert my eyes From the still beauty Subdued by time But that I would witness In those aching final ages Filled with long and random sunlight My disappearance Into wet satin And gossamer ash Of original nothingness
If fire could speak of pain And water too of how it feels to suffocate Beneath the weight Of drowning men They would But flesh cannot heal the sky Nor blood fill a river dry For all thoughtful fantasies are unwritten tragedies Beginning at birth And only deepening when you die
So I weep for the ocean of sadness Clenched inside my throat I pray for the lambs sheltered In the veins of my battered boat And I yearn to leave the answers With my back against the dying day To rest amidst the sleeping shepherds For I have nothing more to say…
My bed is in the corner Of an empty room The irony is self imposed But not without reason I have heard that darkness Gathers more in the deep And perhaps it shall help me sleep Faster than dying by lying wide awake Counting seconds, falling and rising With time’s unreceding tide.
The curtain hanging by my bedside Often flutters in the night And it’s breath though purposeless Fills me with envy By it’s act of pure motion Sans a shred of emotion How can I be more than me When everything I seek I deny to see?
Dreams; they die, my own are no exception Even when I have them Caged behind a glass case Cuddled in red velvet Caressed by Mozart’s Sonatas The flowers shall wilt, roots die and fruits decay Nature by nature of unrequitance Shall swallow none but one’s own For birds do not nest on trees unsown And those that I watch from the moonlit window They shimmer and shine Like gold and wine Broken; yes and crooked and white But they know unlike me the taste of sunlight.
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 can hear the roots tear Across the breast of resting soil Like blind fingers, stretching the Depths of darkness, Those long forgotten by time For the hours; they fly only above the ground The black womb is all silence And frozen thoughts: Except those murmurs of memories Left by faded footsteps And shadows parched under the sun Of people who could not turn, away. I hear them too, their thoughts, In the leaves yawning with the wind And fruits falling with the same It’s bittersweet syrup; tears and sweat of toil gone unremembered A destiny dismembered Like roots they yearn no reason Nor do they desire The crystal sunlight reserved for carving men All that is needed for the flower to bloom And the fruit to bubble without bursting Is this truth soaked with pain That they stand alive and upright On the shoulders of hanging men
I have danced Many a dances Without a song in my mind And I saw many a chances Yet pretended to be blind There were reasons For these decisions But those reasons were not mine I was a stone, sought for statues But born on an incline And so I fell down the narrow Walls, without a ledge Trapped between tombstones Out of time, for an age And now I await in the dungeons With my heart on the ground In search of an echo That can be heard without a sound
We both are tenants Trapped within the rubik cube love Shaped by our shoulders Resting against each other And there is no escape; For our landlocked lips Shifting like dry grass Under the music of sorrel wind Other than lying on different shores Waiting for the same tide To ferry us away Towards a sunset and a sunrise Splitting our world; two indifferent ways.
You count the stars between your fingers And I vanish, like a thin piece of ice A spectre, yet unfound, in the jigsaw world Left alone to wander the newspaper streets Those daily retreats of hourly love Bought with midnight mascara and silk stockings Rubbed raw between the eyes and thighs Of mad men and maddening women Looking for a cheap trip to the paradise
I hear the tea cup tinkle And know you have taken a sip Of the warm clove water Left upon the doorstep By the lonely wood worshipper Whistling for words And I am content that you did your prayer Much like my daily dead affair To show how much for each we care By being willfully unaware
Thus there is food upon the table And smile upon our faces And though the roof is leaking And the floor is unswept And there are holes in our clothes And scarce money in our pockets left We know we shall scrounge through Past the ups and downs and ifs and buts Of everyday euthanization By lying wide awake Half dead with escapist desire In some strangers arms And murmuring through their skin The leftover vows We kept for ourselves By scribbling away the love Not meant for each other
I keep awake Watching the parched lightbulb (And the lightbulb perhaps watching me) With my hand on the warm doorknob; Leading halfway to hell, Till the caterpillar thoughts crawl out into the silence And cocoons of dreamless desires Flood the floor As dark pools of velvet; With skin like ash and skin like glue. Fingers of fire And butterfly blood Seals the sound of the oboe In the roots of time So the seeds of silk may flower And the fountainhead of pulse Breathe in the open every night To let the swan song of love; Traced on the tips of arched spine Leave the lips And take hold of the walls To make the voice of world Like beads of sweat; evaporate, And the colours of a carnal mind collapse Into nothingness Of everyday afterlife