Where did you go?

My hands shake again.
The walls fade and try to imitate
the pale green of your eyes.

But they fail.

These walls envelop me.
Closing in. Crushing. Suffocating.
Blood spills over, but from where?

I am nobody.

My chest heaves as pain consumes me.
Pull me up from below;
Liquid life gushing out hurt...

And love for you.

The needle in your hand
pokes. prods. stings.
Stitch after stitch;
sewing me up,
making me sane.

And the healing process begins.

exhaustion is carving lines on my face
like a painter scraping his palette of paint
you remove all color and with wanton replace
methodical gashes that won't erase.

In the orchard and rose garden

I long to see your face.

In the taste of Sweetness

I long to kiss your lips.

In the shadows of passion

I long for your love.



Oh! Supreme Lover!

Let me leave aside my worries.

The flowers are blooming
with the exultation of your Spirit.



By Allah!

I long to escape the prison of my ego

and lose myself
in the mountains and the desert.



These sad and lonely people tire me.

I long to revel in the drunken frenzy of your love
and feel the strength of Rustam in my hands.



I’m sick of mortal kings.

I long to see your light.

With lamps in hand
the sheiks and mullahs roam
the dark alleys of these towns
not finding what they seek.



You are the Essence of the Essence,

The intoxication of Love.

I long to sing your praises
but stand mute
with the agony of wishing in my heart.

A quick, sick, quiet tune
Struggling for breath,
dying for room

Vivid memories, words with swords
Broken ties, pit of lust

His eyes were light as ice
they were as cold as his heart
His touch draw blood across my skin
Portraits, patterns, landscapes from within

A fragile dreamer, a shattered heart
My soul, my body, he tore apart

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
******
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.