genocide needs to end, you complacent fools…

bodies stack like forgotten prayers,
ash clings to the tongues of those who
dare not speak.
your silence—
a currency traded for comfort,
a choir of apathy humming along
to the drone of dying children.

how much blood must drown the sand
before you call it a flood?
how many broken spines,
how many mothers screaming into dust
before your heart cracks open
and spills something real?

you sip your lattes,
scroll past the headlines,
tut-tut at the mess of the world,
then click away—
like a god who does not answer,
like a witness who turned away
and called it survival.

but history is watching.
your name will be written
not in gold, but in shadow.
the ledger of your soul
tallied in the weight of the lives
you ignored.

wake up.
the dead are calling.

His colloquy, vintage, rich and bold
Unveiling nuances, young and old
Subtleties dance, like fireflies at night
Whispered innuendos, a gentle, sweet delight

His flavor, a lingering caress
Savoring bliss, in each
tender address
In this sensory waltz, entwined
A delicate balance of taste and design

Where words become wine,
and wine becomes art
Relentless aftertaste, a deliberate
imprint on the heart

I sit in the corner,
where the world moves past me.

I laugh, I nod,
but in the spaces between,
I wonder if I’m actually here
or just an echo.

I turn small things into lifelines,
and then—just like that—they fade.

People don’t leave loudly,
just quietly, subtly,
like a book set down
and never picked up again.

Maybe that’s fine.
Maybe that’s just how it is.
A quiet, familiar tune,
played on the world’s smallest violin.
Not loud enough to stop anyone,
but always playing.

How can this be?
Too deep to understand, too deep to digest.
How can this be?
How can you turn away, and act as if you were blind to babies being burned, and buried in the rubble, decimated lifeless tinted souls on your vision screen.
There aren’t enough adjectives to describe the horrific images.
How can this be?
The screams of death in realtime stays with me.  
For I will never forget.... you too should never forget.  
The screams of death echo and rains on me like the blues.
What a tragedy.  
Too deep to understand, too deep to digest.  
How can this be?

Ive never been a believer
Not in the preternal, supernatural entities
That command our lives.
When chaos errupts
Or the ensuring peace in the eye of the hurricane
The feeling lingers
a want, a need arises.
Suddenly when I look at myself
In the hollowed reflection of the mirrors gaze
I have never prayed more fervently
To a god that I don't believe in
That thinks my life a sin
I pray, postrate and beg,
Til my tongue is full of blisters,
And my lips are cracked
That I could be welcomed into the silence

Give me peace.
Give me death.
Give me quiet.

For it must be hard to love someone
Who loves death more.

Is more than a city
It is a feeling
It is a place one goes to feel magic
A place that touches ones heart and never leaves
A place to go and touch history
and a place to marvel at all that is there
A place that dances like a gentle muse
Whether one fancies monuments like the Eiffel Tower or just a quiet walk down a street
Or sitting by the Seine
It is all special and sublime
But perhaps the most special thing  is to be there when it rains
To watch the people moving to and fro while the rain gently washes the city while sipping a cup of coffee in a local cafe
That’s Paris