Wildflower 'neath a
     giant weeping willow,
         comforted by the shade
  her fragrance wafting darkly
      whispered into the wind ~
   she'd been 'betrayed by the sun',
frail tendrils blistered
     of indiscretion below
            burning discrimination,
   fallen neath the cracks
        suffocating a delicate essence,
she could no longer bear the
   deep-rooted superficiality  
         of seeds buried within *****
                    little implanted secrets

Baggage within
      trappings of illusions,
love packed away
  in neat little compartments
gathering cobwebs at
     makeshift improvisations,
dusting intermittently
      if by chance a light
           should shine,
never wholly untangling
    the snare
mid a labyrinth of
      transparent entrapment,  
as violin strings continue
      to unlatch the same old key

Still hunger for your skin,
  thirsting the lips that
   once melded into mine
one last blissful night together
  flowing of wine and passion,
never suspecting you were
   letting me down easy,
our hearts were in sync -
      or so I was led to believe
   veiled in ecstasy,
    a cruelty worse than death
      in the least, dying has a final chapter

~

This love is so exclusive
That turns me too illusive

When I am in a dream
She builds the stream

When I write a poetry
She recites the piece fluently

When she sings a song
Dreams longing me too long

So my heart is under lock and key
Which could only open by she

~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

This life is sometimes worth living.
But God, I'm just so tired of giving.
I remind myself that there's more out there,
that life isn't just hidden in this tiny comfort square.
I look up and think of a better day,
that not all days will be like today.
At times I think, Why am I here?
Why does it feel so easy to disappear?
Tears stream down my face
and I close my eyes to imagine a happier place.
Tomorrow will be better, I say.
But that only gets me through today.

being the topper in the class, he developed certain pride
that the envious derided, ignored flatterers on his side.

the first bench was his permanent place
from where shone his haloed face
when the teachers spoke seemed it thus
there was only him in the whole class.

all questions he took the answers he knew
solved hardest sums others had no clue
not once an intruder could invade his space
he shined in glory of his flawlessness.

from him was never unfinished homework
ruthlessly made on exams his mark
was taken for granted he would win first place
the rest of the herd would just run the race.

the teachers indulged him the pride of the class
but you know all fame are fragile like glass
it so happened a new teacher joined the school
unbiased he was not to blindly toe the rule.

he asked the first boy if he had ever flown a kite
played marbles on road picked up a fight
if ever he had walked barefooted on the grass
stole a look at sky bunked even one class.

if he had ever chosen to close the book
hid him alone in the scariest of nook
scanned the horizon to catch first moonrise
counted the stars bamboo grove's fireflies.

he looked nonplussed didn't utter a word
anything than studies he hardly bothered
had he answered it would all have been *no
to him most precious was his place at front row.

he bowed his head down with ashen face
for the first time in class he failed to impress
what happened next was no riddle to guess
that teacher was gone without a trace.

Paused on the veranda
  for a poetic tête-à-tête,
we sipped vintage wine
  and spoke of days gone hither
      when we were much greener,
  tripping the nimbly light
   and guzzling cheap beer into
      the wee hours of night's obscurity,
wiser and older, yet still imagining
        one day we'll conquer the world,
resigned to this present moment
     we comfortably reminisce,
               midst the effervescent
                                bubbly of reality

a distant desert
is not a prerequisite
for conflict and pain

Not all wars are fought
over oil, scars are also
a hallmark of home

Old Father folds himself
into a corner of the doorway.
His cardboard bed is new,
has not yet begun to carry
the soak of his sweat
or the brine of his old *****.
It is a beauty - he guards
the box with a ferocity
only seen from those
who own nothing but what
they can carry.

Old Father sits like a monk,
quiet and contemplative.
His gimme-cap is a dirt ground halo.
The blanket of his beard
gives a sense of warmth against
nights too feral and bitter
for a man of sixty-eight years.
His breath sketches pictures
onto the air, and, like fog,
they drift away.

Sleep well Old Father,
on your cardboard bed, on the cement
of that doorway where dreams
are dusty shadows that become
ice-rimed memories.

~
Suddenly I felt!
Known voices passage near by
My friend, this touched me a long before
Maybe time slowly comes here

In the impulsive air the images grew
Snaps of springtime those claps of matches
Long, long ago the tune I had heard
Moving slowly as the wraps of the ripples

I see the life that I cut with a knife
Feel the earth that made my heart
Long, long ago the feelings had fallen
Again chocking which is knocking to my lost heart

Long long ago but yet not to far to go
A lonely shadow that ever been sat
On the cliff of the shore coming into a soft pore
As the little drops of anguishes
~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

Men engaged in a five day battle
you better hold on to your saddle.

armoured knights running a runs race
archers shooting ***** for them to face

Dressed in white but no messengers of peace
these are 22 warriors, not from Rome or Greece

The ground remains green, but the pitch burns
in the fight for the prestigious ashes urn