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?

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.

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.

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.