I am a mess.
A cluttered room full of
sad dust and stowed away emotions.

In the winter,
I shiver with all my excess baggage
and the piercing, frosty winds.

This woman, that comes and goes-
Unloads her haunted antiques
Off her achy and raw shoulders.

And she will return in the summer.
The heat shall suffocate and sting me
Even in the most joyous season.

I wonder- if she would ever part with these
Medieval, Gothic symbols
that fester her spirit with Shura.

Sometimes in the mirages,
Her head splits into three
And each face telling a separate story.

I pray that those hungry ghosts
Will be banished from her spirit.
And the Wheel shall finally turn
to begin my pilgrimage to the Moon.

Time for growth.
Time to grow beyond what is known.

Time for healing.
Time to heal my jarred and jaded mind.

Time for nourishment.
Time to nourish myself with sacred rice and holy water.

For there will come a time
When little time is left.
And my time could be eaten
by the Gods or a greedy fool.

And with time
My arms will grow
like Shiva's flow
of four cardinal points.

And when time passes
I will not care of mistakes
we all make. Time will
drown our guilt.

My love doth weep,
When it stretches across the oceans
Fatigues and swims too deep,
And falls to steep hatred.

My love doth weep,
When she realises that only
One half of the heart is complete
And the sweet fruits have fallen.

My love doth weep,
Somewhere in the Sahel
Water is scarce for moving on,
And all the oases have dried and gone.