The crescent moon be my perch.
        A bough from which I extend my arm.
Careful fingers grasp my brush...
And with it I shall fill the void
with the universe.                

               The crescent moon be my hammock.
Upon which I lean fully into,
to seek restful recluse.                
Should my body start to buckle...
        From the heavy hopes of wistful eyes.

   The crescent moon be my anchor.
From which I draw                
my inspiration and strength.
                   She would cradle and sway me gentle...
      When wilting hearts spill unto me
the callous wiles of the world.    

The crescent moon be my well.        
A fount through which my palette        
remains full with an                                 
abundant array of silvery white.        

Just so...                                 
I could conjure for others,
       what their hearts so desire.

Just so...                      
I could grant them       
             needed solace and tranquillity.

Just so...                 
                          I could infinitely paint for them
the stars...

She was the glittering fairy
In the books,
But those who knew
Of the fairy
Tinker Bell,
Told another truth.

For hook was never after Pan
He was to hook a fairy,
Was his plan.

She had them hooked
On Dust,
Each morning
They would snort the glitter,
Then once again
Before dusk.

Those of weak soul
Could not take the toll,
Blood would seep
from there,
Eyes
Ears
& nose.

Feed to the croc
With a clock ticking,
Also addicted to
Lost boy flesh
Glazed,
Glittered,
Eyes,
Of a hunger untold

Peter Pan  
He flew to our world,
Not for
Friendship
Or for fun,
But to replace those fallen
Dismembered,
Hacked,
carved,
All by tinkers wand.
They were
Feed to the croc,
When all were asleep
High on dust
They never did ask,
Where the others had gone.

Enticed by a far away land,
Those who were taken
Never again to see home.
The lost boys
In a far off Land.

Peter her protector,
From the man,
The one with a hook for a hand.
Stories sing a different tune,
For it was tinker bell
Who magically removed
This limb called hand,
To quench its hunger,
Fed it to croc
Now the beast has a
Taste for the man.

No ill does hook hold
Against Pan,
But a sword
Must be put  
Through this child,
Who thinks he is man.

For hook is the only one
Who can rid this land,
Of the twisted dealer
Of dust,
Who wishes
To enslave this land.

Spin a web...
a little tale...
with the
unwavering voice that
tells of limitless grandeur.

Weave the
finest threads of imagination,
laced with infinite magic...
into a spectacle...
of spellbinding tapestry.

Cast your palette,
unto canvas...
brush with the strokes of
your heart's shackled candour.

String your words
into phrases,
into sentences
that turn into beguiling jewels
that we...
only we...

see as poetry.

Begin the ****** battle
Bouncing bullets between brain and vein
Trenches dugged in heart
Barbed wire surrounds damaged parts
Roaring war rages on
Pouring bloodshed in every artery
Aorta keeps pumping
New oxygenated soldiers
But they are soon dead
And their bodies flow back to the heart.
All in name of the superpowers
They do not care of the hours spent
the shower of bullets used
They simple oppose one another
Desires to dispose the other.
Left vs Right
with no end in sight
Each write their demands
Compromising is not an option
So the war continues on
and the body suffers.
You begin to forget about hope
presume the cadet is missing in action
No body to exhume though
you must resume the war
and worry about hope later
If there is one.
As you begin to feel the ware and tear.
Noone is aware of the internal bruising
Missiles cruises, capillaries blown to bits
Military chivalry shivers in this civil war
The cavalries only misery delivery
is that of the dead peasantry.
History's favourite victim.
Without hope, the rope tempts
Only preempts what's to come.
It would take an uprising
for peace to return.
But there is no need for revolutionary force
to win this war.
As the organs are still functionary
A beat, no matter how faint, is still a beat.
and in the pulmonary vein,
that train to the heart,
the optimists are rewarded with an armistrice
and peace breaks out like lil' flamin' poppies
swaying in the breeze lining the battleground
After all the damage done
something pretty survived
and bloomed in spring as a reminder
That even in the lowest part of your history
When war consumes you
inhaling the fumes of
desperation, humiliation
and pain poisons your core
leaving your thoughts sore
and the rope serpent tempts
All is not lost.
Hope can still be seen
can still break the surface and grow.
It has always retained the same purpose.
Just like when Pandora opened her box
and let out all the misery in the world.
One thing remained.
Hope.
There is always hope.
Wars will end.
Time passes
Poppies grow.
You gotta keep believing
Stop deceiving yourself that leaving is best.
You gotta have hope.

He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.