A breath, a sign, a hi
A bellow, a sniff, a sigh
A kick, a scuffle, one dies
A plot, a dark shadow overlies.

A song, a dance , a slide.
A whistle and a birds chides
A purr, and the cats meow subsides
A crow, and majestic **** strides.

A flatter and a feeble heart dies
A shot and the fatherless cries
A crave and all warmth dries
A hurt and all fears arise.

Words are signs of life, they form images evoke emotions and like rain make foliage to rise, or an oasis to dry,
They make an outstretched hand to give, or slap.
N just like the ratio of production is higher frm a well-tended piece of land than frm one thats not properly tended,so is the case with words

Words make , they break, they gather they rake,  they scatter they fake. Word cause and heal wounds, they make hands feeble and also strong.

Words are like clay in the hands of the potter, a braid of hair in the hands of the salonist, a masterpiece can produce, or a disaster in waiting, words are windows to sections of the soul, areas that you wish to guide others to, areas you feel of but have never been. Like a compass in a clueless sea. Like a GPS in space. They make us find our path back home, or make us lost for eons,
they describe pain, our unnatural thirst, our demons and fairly tales. Words they...

Silence is a scream,
its not absence of sound,
its a novel ,
a chase,
an encyclopedia
a whole dictionary.
Its a landmine infested field,
a slaughter house for dreams and ambitions

moments are like the lunar eclipse, a frozen aspect of time, that comes once in eighty years.
We should cerebrate in the rareness of the golden moments.
Its Gods message, we have no control of tomorrow, ours is today.

Like rain it makes them grow, just simple feelings to torrents.
Like a small breeze, brushing on the surface, they change the calm emotional ocean into a death trap for the poor thinker.
Like a match stick, lit to a can of perfume, the stink of ******  smell raises as it brought to a thunderous explosion.
The ravernous bear, calmed, the harmless cat made a killer, all by simple them

They can't be touched, no evidence seen, only aftermath, a horrid trail of destruction,
Of mountains trampled, of volcanoes quenched, of seas dried, and of desers made gardens,
all due to syllables joined together, words

I was smelling the flowers, the scent so rich,
my fingers trembled,
as I caressed the delicate petal.
each piece meticulously placed,
each so delicate,
their colors wooed me, and...
just as my nose got its waft of the aroma,
a sharp pain brought me back to my senses,
that all beauty has in it ugliness.
the bee had its own agenda, mine was also different
but our urges were fulfilled by one, sweet flower.

Is it the wave kissing the sand
          or is it the ocean
                   deep from her heart
sometimes gently,
                                  often hard,
but always with passion?

Is it the sand kissing back
        or is it the land
            happily losing ground
with every kiss
             to his eternal mistress,
the occupant of his soul?