Warped lies embedded
In the nucleus of your being
Tilted fantasia
Twisted mockery
Of ethereal tenderness
For it was never real
Silken trail of togetherness
Sodden with maggots
Carcass of words
Infested with falsehood
Almost sounding true
Under the dying moon
Raven-eyed, the lost prowl
For cadavers of love
Scavenging in ribcages
For a heart beating
Still yearning with desire
To find true intimacy
Do you wonder, find it strange
How this world loathes
When we could love more
As hatred spills everywhere
We stand still, stare in despair
None intervene, all stay aloof
“It’s not my battle, not my war”
Until it is knocking at our door!
For the thing with hatred is this
When ignored, it only spreads
Its claws are sharp, hunger wild
We may be silent but can’t hide.
On a Sunday morning
A summer-perfumed breeze
Rocks the hammock
A book cover gazes
Vacantly at azure skies
A fly lazily sits on the rim
Of an empty flute of nectar
Thoughts doze off embracing
An idyllic disregard
For chores and such
Until a mundane morrow
In the fleeting darkness
Only dreams survive
On the chariot of dawn
That rises from the ashes
Of a horizon in cinders
Lost to the dying lights
Of lonely burning skies!
The dark broom of night
Sweeps away stardust
From under the canopy
Of a dazzling firmament
Slowly lost in the distance
I thought I’d survive without you
But I couldn’t say goodbye
For the words lay tangled
At your doorstep
Afraid to cross the threshold
Into a life where you
Would not be waiting
At sundown, by the yellow lamp
A book in hand, the kettle whistling
Eager to tell and know
Of just another mundane day
Blue Pen Strokes 