Monday, October 17, 2011

When The Leaves May Fall

When the leaves may softly fall,
gently like the rain that
I see you standing in,
the face of ever changing beauty,
standing alone in a garden of grey,
for as the wind sweeps your voice,
in the curling tails of mistrals bending forth
thick walls of nothing facing you,
as nature stands beside you calmly,
For it was not even I,who loves you much more,
who slept with the mind open and dreaming eternities;
there is an infinity that tries to flee,
as I compare love and its ocean of madness,
do I compare love to a single kiss.
But when the leaves may fall,
I will find love under summer's spells,
for those thrills of life and light have not found me yet,
for I have been painting many sad faces in the sand,
but all were mine that turned in the making,
of all the expressions that defined the sour truth,
I finally saw the meaning of having absolutely nothing,
like barren mountains bearing each other,
become the reasons of a life worth living.
I see the future of thy nature,
it's course is beautiful and cold,
But I see thy reflection closely,
thou art the shade of sweet calypso growing old.

The Advantage

How clueless he is,this true man of perfection,
for he is known as the man lost of his perception,
How mislead he has become in his perfection,
for he has lost the ultimate advantage;
The ideal advantage is suited to consume reason,
and yet,remains as the very source of logic.
He pounds at the door of knowledge,
knowing fully well that none would answer,
and the doors are locked from the inside,
but over there,the windows are left open,and,
He can now only feel like a thief.
Such is the nature of that perfection,
that deceit with grace,and yet a man still.
For his eyes,ears and that rapid devils tongue,
too quick to break the silence,
for not so long ago,these once primates knew
of a silence,that of a different kind,
one that fully understands the powers of uncertainty,
one that knows fear from the heavy gloat of hungry death,
one that knows the advantage from perfection,
without the advantage,we are helpless,
simply just the mindless eyes of dark corridors,
for such a being of selfish decision,
as the true poet must be
to discover his own advantage over the charming muse.

Now,let us return to the ideal of perfect man,
But oh!where has he fled?
But over there,i see him fleeing across the horizon,
holding his perfect face in the light of shame.

Friday, July 29, 2011

This Aging Tomb

should I be allowed to witness such random movement,
for such vision becomes the object of the eye's fascination,
for look at the the tiresome living,
such fine examples of perfecting disorder!
But here among these solitary trees,
where i sleep beneath their softening spells,
of their illusive robes and perfumes,
for in this serenity of simply sitting and living here,
to be enbalmed in the fortress of the earth,
how could i but wish to rest within this aging tomb,
than return to my empty and rising coffin in the sky,
and to die with those blank and meaningless memories,
unfreezing in the very fear of death.

but just like voiceless soldiers we live and drive the dogs away,
defending our ever patient deathbeds for just a moment longer,
returning every mortal insult with a cold face,
showing nothing but defiance in the face of the ugly truth.
but cant you see the trees growing without pausing to notice you?
do they seek your intervention to blossom into beauty?
have you not realized that your very desire to touch corrupts beauty?
but it is such a waste of time,to complain,to harass the nature of men,
like an old wife nagging the timeless deeds of certain stupidity,
and nothing ever really changes,even that is for certain.

still the trees are aging,
growing old before the mirrors of the sky and sea,
the moss covering the earth and stone,
as soft carpets for the warm feet that tip toe across,
and living has become a moment of the past,
allowing the dying to breathe in bliss,
the present,the future,
for see how far words can foretell the art of living.

this is not goodbye,
this is an arriving after so many before,
this living is dying,
in this aging tomb,
where i dream of still nights,
where the silence kills the slumber,
where the stars follow the sun and moon,
and these days are just memories running away.

Friday, June 3, 2011

The Butcher

Chop,chop all the heads down,
and bend your tired back and kindly pick them up,
and shed your trails before its sundown.
"catch your breath,my child,
for it is the wine of the gods we have spilt today,
and may we feast lustily today,
so shall we be fed by our darling cow,
glazed by the fires burning smoke beneath our roof,
and swell tonight,as liquid lovers do."
chop,chop,all the heads down,
the mother and the butcher,
tomorrow and forever,
they grind their knives against the filth and the bone,
and the mother of life and death,screams to her children,
"all hail the butcher!
you live his dreams of cutting flesh,
for eternities you will endure this!"
she gloats in her fury,
masking her terror of his face,
and the butcher remains idle in his shop,
his family outgrown,and the infinite cousins in numbers,
and yet,somehow,this knife would not stop,
the soft flesh that would not resist beneath it,
it was the keen mind that soaked in bloody pleasure,
as was his,that refused not the escape from paradise.
the children,raced each other around the world,
while the mother chased them behind the stormy winds,
that brought destruction and relief,
while the butcher still remained idle in the shop,
waiting for the meat that would slip beneath his fingers,
and his back turned,would his children devour,
and so he begins again,carving his thumb along the blade,
wishing their necks were lined against his skin,
but hold the tragic investors to blame,
it was them that laugh and talk in whispers,
but where am I now?
who is left to the butchers shop?
there is peace in the unknowing heart,
there is intelligence in the careless heart,
which do you choose?
and the butcher is sleeping in the garden,
careless and unknowing to these questions,
life and death return to their mother,
she sleeps before they could return,
and they sit by her and sing together,
"we strode in cities,naked and drawling,
we died unknown and survived today,
in tiny,missing rooms among a thousand lost,
we rode on horses and kicked their backs,
they rushed insane and trampled the sons,
we gave our gold to undesired men,
we took them back and were plain instead,
sleep gently,our darling mother,
sleep as you will the butchers handle,
strike that meat,with hate and beat,
this night is dead,and silent are we."

Saturday, May 14, 2011

The Clock

i could sing a song for your mother,
i cannot do much else,
i could lift your head to the boiling sun,
but you could do that yourself,
and i wish your dead eyes kept still,
if only your breath would drown in hysteria,
and shadows crawl along the edges,
waiting for you to sit down again and resolve,
to eat you up and spit you out,
down the tunnels obsolete and the echoes incomplete,
shouting strings of filth at the faces of those who you repulse,
and strangers glance at the reckless might of lunacy,
with the contempt of the plain man cracking on the jowls and the sneer,
how wise could the living be,for all of meaning will perish with death,
and the only change life will recieve, is the freedom from the physical,
evolution,to give rise to the power of the mind,
where the conscience will cease to exist with all consciousness,
and the mind will be more than matter,
control,the manipulation of words to the hypnotising rhythm,
the noise,the sound,the melody,
the splaying ink of unrest and tragic memories,
the cure for physical maladies,being the art of suffering,
where death is monotonous enough to appear again,
salvation,the dying man,would call him,
rather than the relief that one see's and would believe in finding "god",
believe that nothing will save you,
have faith in life running short,
and understand the essence of time that is so difficult to divide within yourself,
though the clock runs as swiftly ,
following the sun to make its mark upon our lives,
should we give in our wills to the ticking of a dull pair of hands,
moving in circles,hollowing in me,tick-tocking all around me,
lustful fantasies flying down those dark and empty corridors,
like ghosts of a false fairy tale,
where the heart wallows in selfish content,
leave this man alone,leave this love alone,this mindless addiction,
this strand of dark hair left behind in an ugly twirl,
this face of a man imprinted on the skin of the sky,
the power of god,existing in the listless names of unseen rarities,
the eye,again,is a wonderful testament to this profound proclamation,
where does it not decieve the mind of its truthful amenities,
bearing witness in silence but for the quaking and shuddering rasps of understanding,
oh how the body mocks the presence of understanding!
but hear the clock resounding still,
you have not forgotten everything yet,
time does not stand still but only the moments lost,
nothing is significant but,
death is the divide,
the bridge between the time of birth and the life of many choices made,
the past and the present are ominous as ever,
sparkling bright with prospects for those who have calculated thus far,
 and the clock remains as it were,
moving forever,
along the sun,
around the universe,
and dead around me.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

The Storm

Do you hear the cry of the startled raven?
The pelting rain falls and breaks,
as stars are hidden from the keenest admirers,
the clouds broken and scattered,
like scratches on the surface of the eye.
strong winds blow this way,
as solid steel and metal anew,
crumple and vanish beneath the thundering brew.
broken feathers,some lost forever,
shattered bones,but forever standing,
what is lost in a storm,should be,must be,forgotten,
but all this while were the seas dead in silence,
but the roars of the wave that rush to the land,
deafening the shrieks of madmen lost to the terror of the storm,
now cries in absolute despair,the raining fires that sear through the night.
sing,o raven,before you croak,
destroy this wind of death,for it falls at the sight of true beauty,
show the unhidden world of what lies waiting,
meaning and reasons have got nothing to do with this,
as the lover breaks his heart by himself,
the cold stare of desolation prepare,
the waiting arms of the storm and the damnation to bear,
where is beauty in times of death,
she stands ugly as a pillar of iron,
destruction described in the paralysis of illusions,
horror,horror,you have shown your true face,
hidden and wealthy of indifference,
as pale as nature finds her skin,
the raven is falling through the mist,
fragments of time are born apiece,
the center of self is lost beneath,
in the darkest abyss,
where i shelter from no sun,
as the quiet days of laughter remained,
a home i would call now,
the mind is on its way,
how i wish i had caught the raven gently,
but i failed to see the reasons of living,
but to grab the murderer before the act,
to catch life by the throat for once,
to terrify,by death,by destruction,by despair,
for how could all things be fair?

Monday, April 11, 2011

The Face

look to the skies when you are without yourself,
look down to the ground and see what you have found,
where are your eyes but upon your face,
look straight and try to gather your last days.
who are you but a man and his face?
look at me and speak,
for where is your toungue but locked away in your daze,
but can you see me as your tears leak,
for look!the man who cries but cannot speak!

are you a man who has not seen his face?
are you so modest that your beauty sinks beneath your skin?
can your words hear mine? do they not rankle your senses?
to rebel,to break my solitude with your expressions,
would you not do any of these to stand up against this submitting life?

what does your name or your face matter anymore?
for it is not your time to decide.

listen to your will for it is more precious than your mind,
for thought would tempt those vivid distractions,
night and day have become so worthless to you,
that time is not enough for you to grow with the ages,
and in everything else you find reasons to hope for.

lying with your head,chin resting upon your chest,
do you stare at the blank walls that face you like a man,
as the wind has lost its way and you can hear nothing but noise,
the way you stare at everyone else who do but show lively,
the smiles and the tearing glances that fall on you,
and leave you freezing in a pillar of snow.

but leave behind your shamed filled lies,
for there are other minds that would prefer to suffer,
than endure the inhumanity of this progressive future,
for now would you control your sanity,
for how you see the world in your true eyes,
so is it becoming the dream of a reality,
and so shall tomorrow rise and it is the dying that dies.

call upon fate,if you will,
but destiny does not exist but in your mind,
call upon those echoes of a dream,and they will say that you are deaf unto your own voice,
and they laugh and scream,the mirth of hysteric confusion,
but you will stand a man,human above all means,
as you shall see everything as it has to be,
and live among them as a shadow that trails in the light,
for this seething mass has a voice that chants into the night,
you hear it in your sleep as the night is silent by the moon,
and yet you woke to a life that spoke about it all too soon.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

The Equal

the light equals the time of day,
and the night remains as the darkness it its way,
as the right to silence,
equals the balance in the restless mind,
and where nothing is the same,
and where time is not what matters
but essential in this game.
the equal,the balance,
the remedy of time itself,
for it is a strange abstraction,this equal,
for how many minds could differ from the other,
when the equal stands alone upon the precipice,
vaguely indifferent and yet significantly alone.
the price of the balance,
to be paid by the sale of ones virtues,
to be the virtue itself,
in equal terms with the presence of pride and my arrogance,
for these are the tools that i have survived with for so long.

a mirror equals the physical,
nothing more and nothing less,
the plain glass that reflects the truth as it should,
for all other lies uphold the balance between,
and all other answers lie beyond the darkness after death.
secrets are kept in the hilt of a fatal blade,
for now destiny does not exist in the hands of a suicidal generation,
that breeds among the artful murderers,
that have found new taste in the fresh blood of the innocent,
and terror is the face that rises from the crimson sea,
the balance tilted for there is more blood raining from the skies,
and all my words did drink of them like wine,
for there is no greater and powerful drink,
than the essence of all things driven beyond the point of good and evil.

but these are ravished arguments that stir the bitter truth in my mouth,
for these words should not be empty of my voice,
and the reasons i wish to speak now,
for with a childish mirth does an audience glare back,
singing loudly of the barbarian chants that blabber nonsense into the refined listener,
for they screamed loudly and stamped the floor,
looking at me as if i was at fault for their expensive misery,
and loudly did one say,
for what else can this bird sing?for here is the monkey that thrives
in the dreams of our own amusement!
but does he,this personage of stupidity,
and a carcass as useless as his brain,
bring forth my ambitions to the public eye,
and to mock them and judge me above all else,
for mark that he has no reason or purpose of encouraging this absurdity,
but these are the same falsities that we all cherish among others.
i am not shallow enough to hinder the truth beyond its recognition,
but i seek to face the truth upon the balance,
to equal life among death,
and to erase the lines that divide the world.

Friday, April 1, 2011

The Butterfly

This is madness! the bitter cruelty of truth and the terror of nature! There are no reasons to exist here but the trivial tasks of living, for there are streaming rivers of bloody life and half cast shadows of the watchful waiting gather beyond the yawning sky, and so filled with light, as these shadows are banished far from the call of darkness.

And this is death! The ocean and sky, the solid and the spirit, for the fires of heaven graze the sky amidst tongues of flames that leap towards the earth, and terrible are the cracks and thundering giant clouds, that storm the world with a merciless sweep. But it is death that weeps when the world collapses beyond his reach.

Is this life a struggle against death, when death is becoming and stoops down to claim us all? This purpose we call our freedom, what of it? The butterfly is simply the answer to existence.

A floundering caterpillar should barely recognise its own existence before the time of evolution proceeds and it is already concealed within the glass cocoon and the butterfly breaks away as a new species by design. How mysterious is the cause of this butterfly to break its bonds with mother earth, and to fall upon the drifting wave of time that carries the careless butterfly to the end. But how may days did it take to gather its strength, regardless of seconds and hours ticking by, and to feed its hunger that grew steadily and then to bear the task of the evolution in its making?

Everything is apparent and obviously justified as one learns, for the world is the map of all the living and the non living, but the reasons are a humane question or a study that does not really need pondering over, but this existence of the butterfly will seem completely curious to the wide open mind that will learn anything and everything.

But what else revolves around this cycle of thriving and perishing? Does not reason belong somewhere between this unreasonable and fatal cycle? Does not the butterfly ascend even beyond the boundaries of freedom, given its former state that mused at this impossible future?

A false world does give life but never meaningful enough that the world seems robbed of all happiness and its spontaneous moments that we cherish so delightedly. For here comes the storm, changing moments into seasons of that which nature shall rule by her terrible hand, as she showers the sky and lands with torn butterfly wings that float gently across those ravaged winds.

Is this purpose of the butterfly justified? The air and the earth, do they serve as mere guides and mothers who nurse their children with such tender care and then cast them head first into the maw of death? the love of the sun and the mild dew upon the butterfly’s back, that sprinkles like the misty rain of morn, where the flowers will bend to touch the butterfly, for shining in the light of life and the earth rejoices of the artist who made nature more beautiful than his child. But as creations left without purpose, and how terrible and beautiful is the world that these shards of reason lay scattered everywhere and each life must choose the subtle truth, so unique and rare that the truth is never complete, for nature buries this life beneath her sands and the wind to carry the last living breath. For we are not given reasons to live and that is the complete freedom that is sparked in even a new born child.

Beauty is that which one fills paradise aplenty, and with every other desired attraction towards the past or the present, and this brave witness of paradise, looking from the insanity to the heights of madness, and he trembles and weeps at the sight of this rising hell. Enchanted are the tricks of nature and the devil that promise the greatness and the fall, both so simple that none could exist without the other.

Madness is desired above all else, where laughter rings like the echoing screams of a thousand souls, raped by the haunting allures of this paradise.

It is the corruption of nature that fuels this hungry beast of ambition that lumbers on through the walls of knowledge, where the sky falls when ignorance is uttered, for the mind is destroyed as the battering continues.

The butterfly is dead and alive, a ghost of life as sombre as the mayfly and the moth. The cold and the heat, fire and water, how well does the air rend life apart with such daring acts of flaming storms and drowning deluges, for it is nature that disregards the cold reasons of humankind and its progress, and that in vain, for the horror falls like a thick curtain before the gates of paradise.

Freedom is the right of a butterfly, if not for those who have already chosen, this illusion of life before death, is the reason that nature is thus defined.

There flies the butterfly upon crystal waves, just a flutter of wings that glide noiselessly by, for who could come by a purpose so pure and simple, to reveal itself to the world and perish before it. Before the sun rises, why must time account for all that was restless and awake within the black night? And still freedom flees as if death and time were chasing it forever, over the ages hunted among other chosen desires and when shall the grey locks upon freedom fade, and where shall we rest, but ever restless in the moment that waits for the future.

This fragile ghost of beauty and of nature, shall end and begin in the life of dawn to dusk and where the butterfly fades when death so mighty does finally descend.

Monday, January 3, 2011

The Actor

there is a city unknown,somewhere among the deepest bowels hidden within the seething masses of the growing populace.a city that wakes in the lap of its own fortune and dreams,and i am a question,standing here,naked of all thought,and i am left to speaking to myself at all times with my back to these living walls.i have seen the eyes that look back into mine without the freedom of curiosity and i regret venturing further into their lives for they are nothing but dust and mud walking on two feet while being blown away in the wind.i have walked with them,and i have understood what they mean in their is a natural effect of the moving live,to die,to love,to murder,to hurt and to cry are the natural actions of all men and that is to say,to act.and act upon this stage of night and day,where everything that surrounds me,is the canvas upon which i stand and swell with pride of being the desired object of the world's attention.
it is actually with some strange gratitude,do i look to the people of this forlorn city,that i consider myself the greatest and unknown performer of the wild and deserted streets,where i can only hold my head high and where i sit quietly sometimes to try and speak my mind,when my turn is due,for i have learnt to wait for the silence to end first.i am not starved by the knowledge of any particular life that i could lead,for being an actor and a performer of the physical,i will speak my lines until the very end,for they are my only words,for as if each sound of the world is uttered in it's natural grace,for this world does not allow me to remain humble any longer,
for the mind is an individual with no rules and the becoming of an artist of perception.and with this perception does one see the soul,and it is not a beautiful is only upon this stage where i am reluctantly drawn to sketch this ugly portrait and hang it on these empty walls for the world to see.there are words that sing themselves free from the binds of my voice,and there are words to chain them for eternity.which do i choose and which do i forget?all these words are beautiful and terrible,and all are caught within a moment of this empty silence of the quiet streets.and still i see the moment to act.

this is a curious place.and all this curiosity towards the mundane workings of the human soul, a stray idea has caught itself upon my idle mind,the relief i have found in this simple idea,the actor's pose,is the beginning of life emerging from the depths of humane ignorance.i have carefully shed my dreams for they carry no significance anymore,for there are no techniques to this mastery of the art,but the simple application of the souls portrait upon the canvas of the plays in every second of time,in every drop of laughter or tears,and we forget in time,that the life we were leading was different from yesterday.or time simply moves slowly or fast,almost at a pace of its own,and we seem to follow time wherever it may take us.the actor's pose,however,leaves me no freedom from this movement,but delivers my lines,almost as if it were on purpose,and the world seems so much smaller now that i can climb this moving mass of people and still remain invisible.
there is madness in living,and that is a vision of life that i lay witness to,and time itself has a way of imprinting itself upon my soul,so that i may never see my true reflection in the daily mirror of life.what i speak is soon forgotten,for the actor never repeats unless it is absolutely necessary,but would the world really listen to the rantings of an unspeakable soul?regardless of this,the actor will still never say his words ever again,for the silence will swallow every word that i have said and time will never look back upon the lost seconds.

there are also words that give me the illusion of that timeless immortality and sometimes even a glimpse into the mystical fields of pleasure,and i have also heard words that break the silence from within,and shatter the plain edge of this madness.for i have seen that when my mind is dull,the eye quickens and the vision is altogether sudden and weary,for i lay down to weep but my eyes are filled with joy,for i am still looking into the darkness and the emptiness,and i see the world watching me,from a silent crowd that is deafening to my heart,for the chaos is breaking and i cannot find the moment to begin,for they are longing to leave my side,having heard nothing of my story,for they are listening only to the wind and the leaves of their own garden of paradise,that lies in the dim future of the death.but apart from this comforting silence,for where else will i have room to speak?

I am the actor and the mask of many faces,for there exists no still water to look deep into my own,for i can be  many things and voices,even the theft of a smile,you would not push past me,for who gains but the foolishly excessive who but partake in another's share of sins and desires,and yet still greedily consume the essence of their is not this pretense that darts around my heart and soul,but the simplicity of being something else,by no means of mere imitations and mockery but just,to simply be someone is not a hard task but it is neither any cosmic revelation of life,where life does not exist in the tight bands of the universe,and where the reality of life is stripped from the bones of mankind's  is sad ,for i have looked through the glass panels of the future,and i have seen the endless desert stretching beyond the understanding  of ultimate isolation and the loneliness of the soul.for it was i who spoke through the voices of many,where all but struggle to speak as one.

i have no dreams because of what i be the eyes and voice,the writers of this simple play,for what else should i dream of,than welcoming the long awaited applause?
ambition is the last regard upon which i shall glance towards in this life,for the sake of the remembrance of humankind,the stepping stone upon the unknown paths yet granted of greatness or the greatest fall upon oneself.

death is the sweetest kiss of life,that brings mere mortals to shame in the shadow of their destiny.

The Sleeping

What are these words and sounds that light every moment of life?
What are these rivers and seas that remind us that life is still moving?
These pages we turn of our beloved books of comfort,
And the joys of living accompany the gazing wakened,
Time alone will lead us till the peaceful slumber,
Where the end will always remain a standing question,
But smile softly in their dreams,
For they know that they are asleep.
Come now, children of the age,
It will be soon time to lay down our heads,
For in these days of light and life,
That has become our truth in life,
For there will fall the darkest of nights,
And the stars will shine only upon themselves,
For we shall be eternally blind and yet awake to the night;
And we shall walk in dreams beyond,
And faraway where the darkness will find the light,
 For there is no question,
And no other answer,
For learn this today,
That we are brothers and sisters of the same tongues,
And may our lips remember while we hasten to stay awake,
For we shall remember the names of the sleeping.