being in love with me
means you've agreed
that each and every of your remarks
will be portrayed in lines of my poems
exhaled as air of my every breath
to be let out as sighs and gasps.
the thought of you will run through
my tangling veins
engraved not in my skin but my bones
even when my body is crushed
you'll float as fairy dust.
your name
will be hummed in the melody
of my dearest lullaby
you'll be the reason i sleep;
you're the sweetest of dreams.

being in love with me
tells that you've agreeed
to be loved by this very being
that carries the definition of imperfections
till the day all seas have gone dry
till the hour all birds refused to fly
till Death greets us both
like old friends meeting at coffee shops

being in love with me
might not be one of the wonders
because i am a bird with a broken wing
a crashed airplane
a forgotten book
a rejected mixtape
an ignored museum
an unwanted company
to many
a nuisance

all that i can assure you is that
when

being in love with me*
the least i can do is
love you as a whole
in spite of your broken heart
your past
your flaws
your everything

      *- Qdri M (17/10/13 01.06AM) -

She took my hand and followed me
through the trees,
under the archway made of ivy
(flanked by pristinely carved hedges)
into the vast, open field
which met the ethereal red sun
on the horizon.

We sat in the fresh grass,
cool in the evening air.
All the while we stayed silent,
just admiring the untouched space.
Each blade of grass before us
swayed gently,
tantalisingly...

Time had stopped
but everything was still living.
Still moving.
As if this place were not included
in Time's perseverance.  
I didn't want it to be,
it was too important to me.

It occurred to me then
that it wasn't this place
that I valued the most at all
It was this moment.

And I captured it.

Terrifying façade,
long and tall, overpowering
but frail.
Ready to crumble and fall.

Snide wire intertwined,
exit wounds in the concrete flesh.
Each thorn stood to attention,
unwelcoming guards of the now unwanted.

Block after block
of relentless alleyways,
like a labyrinth of colossal gravestones.
The sky opens.

Water rattles bullet-like,
upon the once majestic city walls.
The cathedral moans its last hymn
as the steeple betrays itself.

The descent prevails.

We stalked and ran with endless time,
Knee deep in rains of muck, grew lost
In tails of the always new, overreached
By trammeled spots, dotting, red wings
From black birds, knobby toads, garter
Snakes that shocked, marigold swamp
And we bolted above ruddy moccasins,
As ever wet, holey, dying for new days,
Gleaming in the swelters of the horse-
Fly sun, in the giants' grasses, we were
Heroes by the falls of light, glow, dusky
Bold, joys travail and dewy eyes echoed
With sprite flashes by the flies that fired.
And all our conquests— writ in the wind.

Damp, dead.
Springing to life under muddy soil,
The flowers will be here soon.

Skeletal branches claw the milky blue-purple sky,
Green mist beginning to coat their splitting fingers.

Biting cold and wisping wind,
The smell of wet earth and greening grass
More welcome than a smoking, fiery hearth.

Spring is coming, spring at last;
I had almost forgotten the taste of rain in the air.

Stone beneath my fingers, rough and smooth,
A rock in a field to rest against with a beautiful view.

The wind whispers the calling of birds
And the echoing cries of their mates,
The aviation coming north for a long stay.

My hair is whipped by the wind,
And flies from my face;
Fly away far,
Find your own flowing, rippling, grace.

Ice is cracking and rivers rushing,
Freed from their frozen imprisonment;
Fish are swimming and fishermen soon to be rowing
Across still waters clear and cold.

April has come to Michigan once more,
Breaking dawn in morning's cool air.
April returned to drive back the snow,
And Spring Break rides on its dove grey wings.