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Mahnoor Kamran Apr 2017
We were washed in the dim glow of moonlight,
Our heartbeats calm and tranquil,
Serenity beat around us,
And soft melodical jazz that thrilled.

It was a beautiful night,
One that transcended the bounds of reality,
We felt as two stars transported,
Into a sweet magical galaxy.

I felt your soft satin skin touch upon my hand,
And a innocent desire took hold of me.
I put your hand upon my shoulders and grabbed your waist.

We twisted and spun to the sound of jazz,
Our bodies synced in rhythm and grace,
As if two stars that burned for long,
Had collided in a charming embrace.

Your moonlit body glided across the floor like a graceful swan,
Practised and perfected in its movement and poise,
As I looked upon my fate with head upheld and flashed a grateful smile to it twice.

And we whirled and twirled,
Every second abuzz with magic and delight,
Our bodies weary and sweat drenched,
Yet, our soul's thirst unquenched.

As we slowed down,
I had an ardent desire to never halt,
And In that moment fate immortalised us,
And we became the two dancing stars who never stopped.
Mahnoor Kamran Jun 2017
Sometimes
Some Images
Remind me of you.

A lake. A prayer.
Soft glow of violet, ethereal.
Soft land beneath our feet,
a lustful calling, sweeter greed.

Warm campfire in a blanket of cold.
A speck of hell under a starless sky.
Two hearts fluttering uneasily.
Sparks,
as you bless my palm with a dandelion.
Eternal promise of love.

A playground. Old sunken swings.
A boat of moonlight in it's wings.
Pitched laughter, the creaking of swingboard.
Your hands in mine. Serenity galore.

Christmas trees, laden with lights.
Merry songs. Gifts and sights.
Bliss turns into panic. You cough out blood.
A strange fear
Lingers in the air.

A hospital room. Cold and bright.
A machine with curves beeping fast.
Your hand in mine. Slumped body on bed.
You close your eyes in my arms.
Silence.
Death came at last.

Sometimes
Some Images
Remind me of
an incomplete love.
Mahnoor Kamran Jun 2017
Come ye ruthless winds
Carry me atop your sleeve
Serenade me
Let me

Kiss the yellow daisies in the field
And see them flail in bliss
While their sweet fragrance
Seeps in my breathe.

Possess the verdure and bamboo trees
Play with their mellow fronds
As they breathe upon the world
And give life to thee.

Roll with the clouds
In the glassy blue sky
Subtle and smooth
Pine in their grief
Until they burst upon my brow
Saccharine tears
Emboldened in seven colours askew
Making the sky a portrait
As i breathe in the rainbow
Gusts of freedom.

Fly upon the calm arcane ocean
Wondering the wonders of it's depth
It's never-ending soul
A heavenly parade
As i forgot the troubles of land
For a while.

O ye majestic winds
Steal me from my reality
Hark! Make me your reality
So i shall taste nature
the intoxicating
Soul of the
World.
It's been a while since i have written something. Thanks for reading.
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
My pen weeps;
It weeps everyday,
upon the rugged pages of my diary.
A rainbow of tears.

The blue ink sets free
Dark shadows
Looming in my soul.
Deep;
Amidst the hollow wasteland of my thoughts.
They take me
To the nooks and crevices
Of my past.
A yesterday,
So beautiful, So far away,
Yet
unreal.

The red ink,
It paints;
Swollen memories,
That refuse to
Let go of my grasp.
Buried deep within
Yet
alive.

And Indigo;
That sketches,
The abysmal dreams.
That scar my mind,
When the world Is snoring,
In it's beauty sleep.
As i slowly slip,
Into a wilderness.
A madness,
Exhausting
Yet
Infinite.

My words;
Rain upon the blank pages,
With a ink
so melancholic,
It seems like the tears,
Would never dry off.
Yet
they do.

Just like the colours
In my life.
Slipping away,
into pages.

How the cage
of my body,
Confines a heart;
Suffocated
Starved
That sings like a canary,
Woeful ballads Of freedom.
That begs to stretch,
It's wings.
And taste the dew
Of morning,
Lying upon the half awake
Bud.
A charming
melody,
it weeps everyday.*
Just like my p e n.
My diary knows my sorrows the best.
Mahnoor Kamran Jun 2017
How beautiful would you be
If you see your soul reflected
In the mirror
Food for thought
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
She was made of Pearls
Her skin a delicate graft
of Sapphire
Soul sophisticated emeralds
A most valuable treasure
in the world

He lit a fire in her heart
Bright flames Burning bright
Enough to burn galaxies
And reduce mountains to ash

A passion so masochistic
A desire so strong
Obsessive
It consumed her

Yet


She was made of Pearls
And all he wanted was
To dig treasure
And so he did

Carved the delicate sapphires
from her skin
Where deep Scars remain
Like giant pebbles in a river

Stole the precious emeralds
from her soul
As he broke her heart with his
soft spoken lies

Yet


She was made of Pearls
And he got none
He was a red herring
Which soon drifted away

She thrifted in the Pain of love
A black fantasy, a black hole
That punched a void in her chest
And rendered her heart stale

Yet


She was made of Pearls
And the pearls fell in her tears
And weaved down all the oceans
Until she was no more

Now he looks for her pearls
In the oysters of the oceans
More valuable than

*
Her
Love is strange. One moment, it is the the most beautiful thing in the world. The other, an existential nightmare. Hope, it is always the former for you.
Mahnoor Kamran Apr 2017
Haven of saints
A divine harbinger of peace
The calm in storms
Thunderstorm that quiesce
The rose bud that blooms
Birthing beauty; a tender hearted soul
Yet thorny too
It's fate unfolds
A discovery of one's inner soul
Under the veil of noise
Exploration of thoughtful creation
In isolation and poise
A journey to self esteem
Much needed hence preach
We all are belittled by life
And need solitude to love ourselves
Mahnoor Kamran Aug 2018
Prithee, tell me
do your words express joy,
Or are just a lid
to the repressed sad within?

If so,
then where do you hide your demons?
Where does in your gentle, sweet mind
such horror lives?

Do you wish
that with each drop of ink that falls from your pen,
that with each word written that has its own tale,
your darkness drips away.

Tell me, tell me
that you dream, that you hope
that the Odyssey ends
and you come home
to peace.

Just tell me
You wont lost hope
Dont lose hope. Dont die from inside. They are some things worth living for. Hoping for.
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
His skin weaved in the golden sand,
Shone under the sun of his motherland.
Hair a tangled meshwork of thread,
Reminiscent of the nets his father spread.

He had no toys but crystals and shells,
that he collected onshore in lonely spells.
His food, the raw salty fish,
Swiftly with skill that he gut and dished.

He goes and lays down in wet sand,
the spirit of which he loves to no end.
He sings to the mermaids and in mud he rolls,
and the sea laughs with him in breaking shoals.

He is made of blood but ocean too,
he knows no music but woosh woosh woosh.
He wishes to marry a girl of the sea,
who'll dwell with him in his fantasy.

He turns his head and closes his ears,
while people run away from the ocean in fear.
Destruction and death loom ahead,
The blue ocean rises violently filling the town with dread.

Like a heavenly curse it fells on the town,
crushes and sweeps like the tragedy bound.
With his holy hand it avenges it's kin,
and his water that was treated as nothing but bin.

It tears every home away from it's root,
just like how the humans did its fish loot.
And squeezes the life out of the fishermen,
that feast on the dead of his homeland.

It starves and suffocates many men,
who made him breathless with oil spills time and again.
Like a storm it rages and plunders.
In minutes, wrecks havoc on the land and rips it asunder.

It gradually descends back to it's nest,
Satisfied with the curse it did impress.
The next day a body lay on the shore.
Like a coffin did it mud wore.

As people looked on it, they could not help but chant;
*The Child of the Ocean lies strangled in its waters,
We feed things love and they destroy us and slaughter.
Mahnoor Kamran May 2017
I climbed slowly,
slowly on the mount of aspirations,
On        succint        savoury        dreams,
As i see the success peaking from thousand miles above.

I grip the cold stone
tighter, harder,
My passion,
my hardwork,
As i swiftly float
from    the   ground.

Snowy
zephyrs
of laze and evil,
Reign against me,
trying to break my hold.
Yet the fire of my
determination,
Still burns
within.

My thick woolen
coat hugs me tight,
My faith, my values,
Protecting me from
the blizzards of
jealousy, vile,
As i wind
my way
upwards.

A glance
backwards,
And the horrid past knocks
on the veins of my sullen heart,
Yet this soul will give up
no more.

The weary body,
driven by heraculous force,
through the steep slopes of time,
Against enormous storms and stints,
With an armour of patience,
Finds itself on dome of
success.

Ah!
fleeting
moments
of unscathed bliss,
Enamour for success,
And it's sweet sweet honey.
That slowly melts in my heart,
On top of the mountain,
Where everything is
freezing.

From
the top,
the hardwork,
the giant path looks small,
As the heart prepares to climb,
Another                              mountain.
No goal is small. No dream is small. And neither the sacrifice and hard work involved to attain them. And dreams come in all shapes and flavours, just like the paragraphs of this poem!
Mahnoor Kamran Apr 2017
I


These walls of my prison hath endured many ,                
suffering and suffocation,                                                     ­            
to me, they are the sweet calling of                                 
 liberation.  

Nature, how you reminisce life and death,                             
come to my disposal today,                                                         
a­nd see the man.                                                                              who will dance at his decay.

When the noose tightens round my neck,                                        
I shall be smiling at the angel of death,                                             
who hath finally come to my rescue, O you lightening! Then   show yourself, mark the moment when my misery is dead.        

II                    
                                                                ­                                                 This world hath been my prison, my life thunder accursed.    The day I was born, I heard wars emerged.                                 
My mother who awarded me life showered me with love,            until I was poached at five, by a human trafficker.

He took me to a land far way.  ****** hades,                
enrobed me in smelly rags and paraded me through streets.       Since I wasn’t pitied, he cut my left hand.                                  
And hence came a shower of pennies.  

Pennies that went in his pockets and                                   
sufficed his villainy.                                                        ­                     
I was granted a plate of grub in return,                                        and perhaps no whipping if the pennies were his satisfaction.

And he comes home drunk one night,                                          his inebriated body betraying his senses.                               
Ready as a bird who is to take flight,                                                
I slashed him with his own dagger violating his defenses.

III

Henceforth I began to tarry,                                                         penniless and aggrieved.                                                       ­        
The world hath plenteous monsters,                                             
and I met my piece.

As I slept on the frozen streets of this cursed land,             
hunger clenched my stomach.                                                      Sick was the art of begging, a remnant of my stained past,      
but I knew no other.

Outside a fruit shop, I saw an old man buying yield.                     I fell at his legs and begged: “Prithee give me a morsel of food,    it wilt save my life."                                                                     ­   
But **** he gave me too much and taught me slavery.                                       
With my one hand,  
I swept his house and dusted his medallions.                          
That he hath earned courageously                                                  
on­ blood bathed battalions.

And one day, his ruddy daughter comes back home.              
Her name, Messina Oehme.                                                           ­  
O Messina, whence thee hath come from, paradise?                 Thy pulchritude is a vision fixated within my eyes.
                                                                ­                                                  Thou art like the first rain in a desert,                                             or an Alchemist’s prized long-yearned stone,                               At the touch of which,                                                           ­        
even dust turns gold.
                                                                ­    
Thy eyes deep wells of lust,                                                       
wher­e I want to see our future compart.                                    
Thy pale skin like the fantastic summer sky,                                 
a glance at which burned my heart.

I quoth, O Messina, let me not smolder alone in passion,      
thine art my souls only desire.                                                    
Even the grace of saints,                                                        
couldn’t unshackle me from love’s holy fire.

But misfortune hath come my way.                                            
Thy swinish father wedded you off to that wicked Glover.    
And at thy wedding I fixed the chairs,                                         
thy one sided lover.

But O Messina! Thy art still the summer that brightens my life.   I became an hourglass, thine love, my sand,
slowly pouring to the bottom of my heart, 
yet never vanquished from my soul’s devastated land.
                                                           ­                                                       And I remember when thee came to stay at father’s house.
I saw wicked Glover bruising thy angelic skin. 
He hurt and discolored an angel. 
The heavens thundered in protest on this mortal sin.

Rage devoured my soul, as I heard thy shrieks,
more horrific than the trumpet of doom.  
I picked up my dagger and impaled his heart.  
If evil fails to transport a fiend, then love does, to his tomb.

That madman deserved his pudh death. My dear Messina,
thee wilt live free. But thee looked at death empty and desolate heated. I quoth: “I gave you my life.”  
That was the last night I saw thee, thy love defeated.  

IV

Why a man who loved so incessantly,  
will end up hearing the knell. 
Prithee God, if heaven at a fountain of love, 
Make my fate into the fire of hell.

Even if I write as much as the sea,
I cannot explain my misfortune in epistolary,  
Who wrought dole dost naught justice, 
to some it gave fulsome, to some nary.
A man named Wérig in prison recounts the events of his misfortune accursed life on the day he is to be executed.
Wérig means unfortune and weary.
Mahnoor Kamran Jun 2017
All my life i asked:

How can you unlove someone?

Truth came from the angel of death:

*You can't.
Mahnoor Kamran Apr 2017
She was a glow,
Ethereal,
Mystic and Seraphic.

She claimed,
No one loved her,
And no one will.

Yet each day,
Men went to her,
And confessed their love.

And she always ran
And hid,
Behind the sagebrush.

Sad,
They loved her.
She just didn't love herself.
#Inspired #love #Fears
Mahnoor Kamran Apr 2017
Two hearts beating through life,
In a rhythm synced incessantly.

— The End —