I've sat dining with the obscure figure of myself
one too many times.
We sit idly in the absence of sound as the
food grows cold
and my tongue goes numb.
The poison in my cup grows stronger and
my need for it makes my parched throat itch.
I mustn't take from the Devil's dinner table and
yet it is hard to abstain and give myself to
momentary pleasure.
It is a supper that has gone for far too long.
The food has belatedly gone cold and decomposed.
The beautiful illusion of the assortment of red fruits
and meat have rot over the passage of time.
The veil has been lifted and allowed me to see.
It's disgustingly beautiful in its reminder of mortality;
of beauty.

The whole in my chest grows bigger, deeper
as I stare past the deadly offering and in to
my urging shadow.
The flickers of the candles behind me dance
on the wall behind her.
A single, crimson pomegranate has been placed
on the immaculate plate in front of me.
He's arrived.
The host to greet the guest of honor.
Emerging from within the shadows the light cannot
reach.
Him, with a silk ebony robe devoid of all reflection
cascading down his figure
and his waiting for me to take a bite out
of his deadly feast.

He's patient, he's cunning in his silence;
He knows in time that I'll give in to the
hole been caved in to my heart.
The fractured darkness of me beacons Him closer
speaking tenderly as if to not startle our shared reverie
and he comes,
slowly,
taking his time to glance through the craft and art of
his fine dining.
The cold he's brought permeates the room and the
fire flickers furiously about to give way for the
obscurity of his presence.
The reflections of our shadows dance with frenzy on
the wall and I am lost within this world and the other.

A multitude of clocks scream around us.
Stretching his bony hand to me, calmly,
never rushing.
I stare confused and in the basin of his hand
there is a skull
from which protrudes a single red poppy.
Candles begin to burn out behind me.
One by one I can feel the absence of their heat
extinguish,
Just as the hand of the symphony of clocks near
the witching hour.
He remains poised over me, hindering my view of
the shadow of myself at the end of the table.
There are faint murmur underneath the hood of
the robe,
muted by the ticking from the walls.
He's tolerance promises redemption from the
torment of being forsaken.

And the clocks chime,
for a moment everything is a cacophony of echoes.

Their clamor halts.
The hands no longer mark.
Time has come to a stop.

A single candle illuminates the room.
The shadow has merged inside the darkness.
It is lost, yet I know its there.
He brings himself to my level, placing expectantly
the skull and petal beside my plate.
We glance at one another.
After an immeasurable bout of time
I stand from my seat, get the last remaining
candle and sit back down close to him.

He puts his hand around mine
and I gently blow the candle out.

"It's alright, you can cry?" She looks listlessly at her reflected shadow. There's nothing on her mind, every cloud of thought has left the gray skies of it. She feels like a desert, barren and almost lifeless. If she could cry she'd cry the oceans in to existence and drown the earth in her sorrow.
But  she cannot. That's the real tragedy. Nothing disturbs her. All she can do is stand there not quite sure how to express the endless grief that leaves her like a carcass. A decomposing body without a soul, without the breath and sentiments of life.
"You can cry." She repeats to the rippling water in the lake. Her distorted, ever moving mirror where she does not quite recognize herself in. It's impassive in its tranquility.
If she were a song she'd be a broken melody in a dusty music box. Forgotten and replaced.
You can cry, she remind herself in the middle of a night as darkness hangs upon the sky. As it clings to her like Death weighs on her shoulders and violates her through the pores of her dry skin.

Of course, she never does.

She drifts in the open abyss of a tempestuous ocean waiting for oblivion.
She drifts,
                                   she drifts,
                                                                         she drifts...

No dreams.
No sinking feeling of demise.
Waiting for the lighthouse in the distance but all is bathed in the shadows.
There's not consolation of sandy shores somewhere on the distance.

Cry, she begs herself laying on her bed ready to succumb to sleep. Closes her eyes and opens them to shadows. Obscure and never ending. The darkness is ubiquitous, the only God that has not yet forsaken her.
She walks a few miles in the flatness of the dark land but there is no point to her direction for all is desertion. So, she stands in the lightness of the black.
Sometimes, her young self hides behind her back, wearing white and glancing ahead. She looks back at herself and wonders what the she can see. Her dress and hair fluttering gently by an invisible breeze, countenance straight and strong, never looking at what should be in front. After, she walks barefoot in to the darkness and disappear as by enchantment.

You can cry.
                                    you
                                                  can
                                    cry

But, in the darkness of her mind and her room
The tears don't fall
And her affliction is obscured
darkness never seemed so profound

~
he who is a little ahead of his time
whose treasures of the words random
romanticism is in the blood, marrow,
his mood is as the autumn clouds

he who has lost his path within path
drowning with dreams, sunk you within dreams  
again holds thousands of lost dreams
fly the colorful kites in the blue sky

he who hide within himself
**** in his naked poetry
In forms humorous,harmonic  
as a portrait of the Vincent's starry night

he is a pilgrim who has lost himself within spirituality  
holds everything with the love  
who is for everybody so everybody is for him
But in fact there is nothing in all his

he who is simple straight as the waterfall
when in complex grew hard stone
who broke rules for building rules,
knows himself within the other life

whose words never be end
again he moves on and on
who laughs in the moonlight
again swept in pain without thinking any gain

who looks the life
as a grain of sand
and see the sign of love
in the footprint of a fossil

he who is a poet -
~

I wonder...
If I climb up a hill
When the morning is still
(dark)
If I lift up my eyes
To watch the sun rise
(gracefully)
If I fall into the sky
It'll take me up high
(carry me)
And I'll soar with the winds
And I'll float on the clouds
And I'll reach for the stars
As they come crashing down
(around me)

~~
I am not writing any poetry
Not a huff,
Not even a romantic mood,
I talked to a distress

Unto thee of say my friend:

The suffering of pain is more than a pain
Words of distress
No longer I can't say either

The story of that night
That is longer than a long night
That night, my love had died before the dawn

How do I tell thee

The suffering of love is unforgettable
Than the love you never achieved  
Middle of the night to about chest pain

When I could not bear it no longer
Then at late night I call a friend to awake
No longer I can't say either

My friend
O' my friend!
My dearest friend!

How do I tell thee
My soul grew dry that is more than a wither petals
No longer I can't say either

When the sudden stopped of time
I stood, Saw the closed distant door
No longer I can't say either

To be alone in everybody
Within a moment a known seems to be unknown
No longer I can't say either

The last thing to understand who she is constant
The story of the lost bright Star
No longer I can't say either

The door is closed
Maybe someone has locked
Alone, The sleepless nights of choking

One's that hard
Many pale faces in the crowd of strangers
Love is lost within too many hopes

How do I tell thee
No longer I can't say either
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen