Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

I saw a bunch of poets
on a line
at the Avalon
in San Francisco

They looked so tired
So, I approached them
then stated
"you guys look beat"

but, at a closer glance
they were just ******

Allen was there
with Corso and Ferlinghetti
Bukowski was around the corner
trading his wife for cigarettes

again

Much adored is the dead poet

Within the glass case
Away from dirt
Amongst the books pressed
Rests his heart

Such was the silence he dreamed
When words streamed
Like riverine flow
In all might arose
Seeking the order in chaos

Orderly bound now his name
In peace standing behind wooden frame
Yet with the ceaseless commotion of wait...

Much adored rests the dead poet.

The sandman eludes me...

The hours find me wakeful.

My lungs ingests fatuity
while my heart harbours entropy.

Sleep never comes soon
when thoughts dishevelled,
amass to engulf the twilight moon.

To a point where fatigue has taken me...
But still I lay wakeful.

Awaiting the sandman's return,
with the promise of sanctuary.

We all have a place
that we keep
(just in case)
our hord
or our stash
our clutter.

Things that had purpose
or by some chance
may be used again.
Oddities and nic nacks
Old candles and keys
obsolete rechargers and batteries
cables and thimbles,
coins of foreign currencies
manuals and letters and lint.

And they are stored
in shoeboxes,
beer crates
bottom drawers
wardrobes,
on garage shelves
or in hearts.

~~
In the thick wet darkness
Purple flowers are unknown
Last songs of yellow days
As if the anger of Lost spring,
Standing at the end of the afternoon
Embraces the eclipse

Pale gray grass
Dust dough days left alone
Anguish drops around in the silence,
As deep black clouds,
That covers the sky
With the blemish

Drifted clouds drifting more
Builds water flows
Washes away
A white rose
And with the tears
My white love

Intact, Aloof
But the lusterless time
Moving with known unknown cradle
Kapok, Flame-of-the-forest,
Red Flamboyant
Everything Stuck between
Even my Eternal World

Yet who calls from another way
Not at the end of the bend,
At the end of the way
Even Earth Sun Moon,
Where's all the ways mingle
With so many different minds
For another mystic reason
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen