All along 'til now
I've never seen that lily glowing with awe
Though the sun beams with each day dawning
I for one have never come across such radiance
Be it pure or that fragile
Tainted or unlikely fraud
I for one must face each boldly
Not to walk the walk daily
But to work the talk fairly
Life have always come with the even sin
It's the choice of each that gives the perfect scene
For with life there's nothing to spare
We only handled the results with care
Though the hates may reflect as the mirrors
We all should merely understand
Life always comes with the unwary errors
Only the every-readied can really withstand
We all have the choice to the everyday quest
You either let it rot or let it grow afresh
Or turn to other things and have no memory of such
Every experience, a new lecture

Like the tale of you and me
Whose drama I solely admire
With you in that zealous attire
And me acting out the desire
I couldn't wish for a latter alliance,
We had pounded the drum in all dalliance
But failed to make the perfect coherent sound
So they mistook the beat for an ordinary round
Being wanderers we must seek the better chances
Hence, we must be aware of the earthly changes
That they may strike with a wave of a stampede
Shaking every mountains like active volcanoes
Creating a windmilling inferno  
You 'n I willingly played the wonders
But to walk weak and floundered
Or leave those gates opened and unguarded
We couldn't get wasted or expended

With the years whisking by
We will await the coming flight,
The divine blissful light,
That inevitable right,
Each must achieved no matter the heightened plight,
To triumph, we dreamt that definite purpose,
A blend of capabilities and unsolved mysteries,
His own sent designed after his Adam, the inescapable plan
Our better claim, the give and take row
The lily, our gaiety blow
With you, we seek no big hysteresis,
But to be your equally created mystery
Though we are not close to the accomplishment,
We still inhabit a better environment
With you as the factual system,
We shall foresee beyond that of an icon,
For few yawning for something more than life,
Others eventually yield to the easy life,
We lived only to appease this test,
Allowing the grace to do the rest
Like every other system
A command for the timing
A time for everything
This lily, our map out life.

He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.

There she rest upon the globe,
That height, yet much sorrows,
Her likes, they lay asleep,
Individually wrapped in neat little rows,
That awful blurb of pain,
Increases daily as we see the remains,
She pierces every heart,
Her power to consume, so unpredictable,
A mark of doom,
She spreads wherever she roams,
Affecting as much as they do stones,
An abomination for such a small home.

Our reformation , they claimed to soil,
The perfect distraction,
To divert all attention,
From the embezzling intentions,
Of those masked in white,
And their deceiving partners,
Those mistakenly clothed in black,
Yes, those that we believe to be true
It's unbelievable, but halfheartedly true.

Do they wish well for our being?
When they get richer, and we slump poorer,
Do they live in fear?
Or are they just the followers,
Where's the hope?
When our very blood turned white,
When their mess still petrified us,
Who's the real enemy?
Oh , Is she the real enemy?