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One day these bricks and buildings were meadows
These fields the processions of spring garden

One day on these meadows used to play the cowboy’s melancholy flute  
These fields the playground of the furious grasshoppers

These bricks were rivers
These buildings processions of water

In these rivers the moon's dispersion played on the uprising waves,
How softly the sailor sang his lonely song, disappearing within the shadows!

Travelers,
Have I told you a fairy tale?

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Poetry is not only about the write
But also about the *read

my feet are on backwards
but I'm still moving forward.
in an uneven pattern
I leave the old behind.
but the new ahead
doesn't seem that grand.
it's losing it's appeal
all the time.

We are an insecure lot
Whether we believe it or not

You entered the mind
With the sinister intention
To kick out the happy thoughts
And abuse the space
Given to you as privilege
Now that you have taken it hostage
You have made it a place of slander
Deep wounds within
Cloaked from the world outside
You stealthily carry on the violence
A silent atrocity

Walking through the dark alley
Ignoring the parallel road, well lit
Never wanting to expose the secret chambers
Feelings comforted by darkness
Fearing light will bring them to limelight

Every time love is trampled
It rejuvenates with fresh hope
It is eternal

So many words are helpless
Bleeding with lacerations
They lose their existence timidly
As they are not given enough love
Spewing venom on words with disgust
Words longing for respect
They are just inner reflections