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Posts Tagged ‘wisp’

It is like me, filling the blank spaces with letters

and thoughts I- only I could understand you

and me. And why do we need to belong each other.

Balloons need to fill in with air and float. To be free.

To go to some places and leave monotony.

Car wheels imprinting its destiny on a lifetime

of wanderlust, embracing wide open spaces.

 

I try to skip around fear. Dodge people’s gazes

piercing through my self-made envelope of distrust.

Like a cloak I shielded myself away from someone’s

intrusion, uninvited to enter my world. I own. This room

of living the years full of questions of why do we need

to belong each other- keeping a stranger to my house.

 

And now I can see, that this page is getting crowded

with thoughts I- only I could understand you and me.

It is like a bottle of wine emptying its last night’s discontent.

It is like a pack of cigarettes I consumed of inhaling

and watching the wisps of smoke thin out of dreams.

Wind will carry the tides farther away to the horizon

but you know it will land on somebody else’s shore.

 

I need not to bring my own footprints.

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I hear them screaming through

the sound of falling and splashing

and stumbling down staircases.

Of mangled steel twisting glass

and concrete skins ripping away

from the building’s skeleton.

 

I hear the slithery rush of jet fuel

scrambling down chases and elevators

at first and second impact, the aftershock.

Igniting fireballs through the hallway.

Explosions rocked the foundations

trembling in little earthquakes.

 

I hear the mad stampede roar.

I hear the panic bars unlatch.

Then the cacophony of sirens,

the tolling of alarm bells,

the symphony of shock,

the avalanche of horror,

the carnage of the missing,

and the agony of the trapped.

 

I hear them- peoples of the world,

helpless among the tangled mess

of floor slabs toppled like a deck of cards.

The gradual weakening of their hearts,

the whispers in pain, the unison in prayer.

The slow fragile breaths silently eroding

and extinguished like wisps from a candle.

 

I hear the distant cries of children

who lost their fathers and mothers.

The anguish of fathers and mothers

losing their children in the rubbles.

The lamentations of men and women

losing their wives, their husbands,

their brothers and their sisters.

 

I hear them all within the sound of the water

trickling down over the polished slabs of stones.

I hear them while I listen in the reading,

of engraved names whose innocent fates

were like the powdery dusts in mid-air

frozen, suspended, undiminished in time.

 

I hear the grieving sighs. The silent tears.

The ashes of remembrance, the memory.

The extraordinary day when the world

will never forget the ground zero.

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When all the lights have faded.

When all the sounds have died.

A choice have been made between a mother

and the life that struggles in her womb.

Tonight will be the darkest hour.

 

And her whisper became tiny wisps

of breath unheard. The elusive spark

of love by the palm of her hand.

Searches for a missing pulse

beating to the sinews of her flesh.

  

But fate snatches the dream away

like thousand  daggers piercing

into her wounded soul. It became

the bitter part of the past she cannot

forget. A stain of pain that won’t go away.

 

When once a beautiful journey cut short

of a distance into her fragile memory.

The silent tears through all the years,

remembering a child without a name.

Stranger to a mother’s touch.

 

Not a trace of an angel’s smile.

Not even happiness lulling the little one

to sleep in her arms. She dreams,

she hopes of becoming a mother

embracing her child. Unborn.

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There will be a single spark of light.

But not from the stars. Because even them,

they have shied away and have forgotten.

Here, only from my birthday candle

casting shadows waltzing the wall

and the chilly wind whistling a tune,

sending wisps of wishes, for tonight.

While the rest of the world snoozes

in its deafening silence. Getting used

with the normalcy of tragedies.

And in their lukewarm sympathies.

In the quiet corner of the city, littered

and battered of the rain-drenched

images of chaos and shattered hopes,

on the table a bowl of rice

and a can of sardine. In a color

charcoaled space,  I breath as a man

determined to celebrate my existence

among the ruins with this twist of fate.

I shifted my gaze from the table

to the broken windows and watch

the passing of the storm clouds

in the evening sky. I am happy

but no sound of laughter. Hearing

the incessant drop of water

from a leaking roof.  Contented

among the shadows. Decided

to bury the hatchet of what is past.

Gathering what’s left after the storm.

As I dream of patching the tattered

and pock-marked walls, then hide

the traces of mud  in fresh white paint.

Believing nature has a way to let people

start anew. De-cluttering my life of things

that entangle men of never-ending want.

Until now,  when I had less.

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A Moth In The Flame

Idealism is one glorious

iridescent flame-

a magnet to young blood

swathe in innocence. How

with our simplicity,

our winged resistance-

singed and burned. Died

 

until our ashes will mix

in the wick, obliterated

by mediocrity and irrelevance.

Our lives wasted and fading

to wisps of smoke-

in a country where poverty is

a usual sight. Everyday

 

like cockroaches,

we swarmed the sewers of society

and its livid pavement. Of placards-

waving vituperatives.

Flaunting invectives for a change

we vaguely understand. We

 

solicit publicity.

We paraded wearing black

signifying protest. While

those frigid walls, we painted red

in grafitti seeking sympathy-

disguising under the mask

by being a pro-masses. A peasant.

A proletariat. Civil

 

disobedience. We clasped

our fist imitating Che.

We lined up first against

tear gases and waterbombs,

provoking a phalanx

of uniformed men.

Maximum tolerance.  How

 

dangerous, how close

we have trodden

by knowing so little.

We advertise poverty

as a face to a cause,

bannering struggle for

autonomy, sugar-coated

manifesto of national democracy.

A sovereign common rule. Blindly

 

we morph

into mouthpieces. And fronted

as cynical puppets,

high decibeled in echolalia-

against powers in the high places.

Contending reasons

constricted within the bounds  

of our manufactured rhetoric

on utopia. We are

pre-conditioned

 

to see the world

as our oyster. We read

in our books a twisted history

of our beginnings. Taking

a stand by that rostrum

endlessly kvetching

the capitalists.

We became subservient,

as willing subjects to-

 

a coward. Who

shielded himself in

the backdrop of its

Nordic friends.

An ailing lion,

such an imperialist-

remotely controlling

his serfdom, extending

influence. Like a poison

to the minds of the horde

of pseudo intellectual-

moth as we are.

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I left the world as it is

Not a tear has been shed,

Only the mist forming

faint breath of dying-

wisps of memory

of the world when

I first found it.

The womb of the earth

gave birth, a wound won’t heal.

A fading montage

I watched. I witnessed.

A cycle of suffering.

A continuous decay.

People lying lifeless

of hunger, alienation,

war and hate.

Dog eats dog, surviving 

like savages

inflicting pain.  Aimless

generation killing

one another.

Of bombs and guns.

I left the world as it is.

No heroes funeral.

I exited, unnoticed

in blood and death. 

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I never had a dream

in black and white.

Like the moon’s

dichotomy of faces

and the ocean’s

abysmal depth.

Mine is a crisp

flapping of maple-

leaves turning fire

in the autumn sunlight.

Or a bottle-nosed dolphin

gliding in cetacean grace.

Light refracting on water

of blue and purple magic.

 

I never had a dream

in black and white.

A monotonous photograph,

of flexed sinewed arms,

simulating sand dunes

meandering in ochre charm.

Mine is a far-away galaxy

in its celestial wonder.

Wispfully bursting show

of orange, yellow and magenta.

Or a mirrorball gyrating

flickers of crystalline.

Metamorphosing reflections

of gold and silver sheen.

 

If I ever had a dream

in black and white.

I will suppress them within.

Until  this dark room becomes

one mystical secret garden.

Invisible yet seen.

Letting my pillows

constrain the brain

like an amoeba

entrenched into blood

clotting, pools of red.

And maneuver thoughts

into a kaleidoscopic

shades of the rainbow.

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