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.

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.

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."

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.

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.