The Songs of old birds in cold worlds warm hearts of women where men have left.

Past wars still brewing in the brain making stews of despair he shares only with himself suffocating without breath his heart
infested with death as
The blood of foes
Is still staining
his hands

She holds him
as though an infant
trembling in fear of his
own ghost she assures him
with a kiss of hope that life is
still worth living and all else is
forgiven and all else is forgiven

Standing still
Crushed rampaged
  metals collide the face
  splashed with guts of the
      masses Massacras being
            routines in all routes the
                   scenes are blinding
                        as light flashes
                     before the eyes
                  like angry skies
                in  darker nights

           The day is reborn
      the face wiped with
  cloths of sorrow black
bags already gone but
  not forgotten, pardoned
     only when the bones have
           cracked and the body
           can no longer stand the
             pain, with holes deep
             enough to be filled
                    by the rain.

Empty,
vacant notions
evicted, the land lord
dismissed them. The tenant is left standing still as though the world has been pludged into voids of deep mists.

In an abyss of shadows no glimpse in sight for thoughts which might rescue the notionless mind

As the rope begins
to look friendly wishing
in the ground he may be burried..
a voice breaks
bonds and ideas are wildfire, a disease
corrupting the mind with tranquility erupting the heart with serenity

Horses gone wild
stumping down hard
in my head
Canaries breaking
vocal cords just to
make me mad

my world of notions
tumbling,crumbling
it's a massive rock slide
in my cerebrum
Hack
my skull with axes so
I can feel the breeze
and set my mind free

The mirror dent, my reflection cracked in several
ways, wallowing in wonder whether mortality is my faith.

My eyes
marry clocks
and drift away
with time, to lands of  broken  hour glasses.

Where eternity invites the reaper to shape short destinies.

Fears smear
amongst peers,
many phobias
being but one
clear path
death is near.
Life is dear

Cold and without words,thoughts
  or freewill. They stuff me to satify
         they voracious appateties.

     Cold and without a say, a plan
    to break away from these bonds
       I stand still and be led astray
          To places which they stay.

Cold and without complain eletricity
     runs wild in my veins they say
         it's to keep me alive but it's
                To distort my mind.

Cold and without care if I ever dared
       myself to leave, to death they
              Would Starve indeed.

The well of inspiration, the whisperer of words of wisdom washing away woes and wounds of wallowing men and women.

She imbues lost and broken hearts, with bliss not a drop of ink is waisted as her skill is demonstrated.

Passionate and proud, we ponder after she writes. She's the master of imagery and the Queen of Poetry.

The ink smothers papers in unforgiving battles of writers.

Where fame outweighs the need for imagery, the structures aimed to be masterpieces, broken into master pieces.

The imagery lost with the message as words wonder about in disorganized sequences.

The meaning becomes opaque, as perspiration drowns the paper,panicing impatiently your words are flooded in pools of poems, so they fade and drift away, without any views or likes only dismay is displayed.

Fall away into sweeter dreams, where tears are but the morning dew escaping the sun.

Sleep in fields of abundant ecsasty, where cupids need no arrows as love
is melody.

Dream of memories mirroring     mesmorising scenes. Where plants      dance to the rhythm of the wind.
Elation being the theme.

Silence breaths violence ominous sounds at night loud owls being quite

Knifes dine with guns mate with thugs and breed sons who spill guts

The old bath in young sins of love while caved by deeds of pride

At the edge of horrors the Sun rises, darkness is incinerated and peccancy is evaporated

.....I will smother you with love.    
hang you with pride riddle your life
           with with bullets of art.

   I will drown you in bliss. Burry
you in everlasting kisses and throw  
         you into the well of your
                          wishes.

              At the end I will reap
    you with hope and **** you with
                 joy as you rejoice.

Perpetually perplexed
Painted poignant
Pictures praising
Potent preachers

The brush is rough and
sore from years of labour
even time has aged but the
paint remains favoured

Piously positioned
Proudly portrayed
Poets patiently
Perfecting parody

The spark of passion ignites the heart, until it is engulfed in a conflagration of notions, as curiosity triumphs over caution.

The seed of wisdom, planted in fields of knowledge, is cultivated and refined in kingdoms of intellect to innovate speeches of freedom.

Blisters in sweaty palms, rubbing against the pen, as it drifts between the paths of future and past, where hope is met and joy is felt.

Consumed by epiphanies, the heart-beat is felt by trembling hands, squeezing the pen for inspiration, to bewilder imaginations, giving birth to new perceptions.

We are young men buried in books
Shoveling words every day
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Ours minds drained deep in the pools
Of knowledge. So they say
We are young men buried in books.

We find ourselves caught in hooks
Of wisdom seekers shall we pray?
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Exhausted, some will turn into crooks
While we proudly remain grey
We are young men buried in books.

We bear fruit of hope from the roots
Of pain so follow the rules we lay
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

Are we zombies in schools?
In our paths we never stray.
We are young men buried in books
As we are gradually shaped into tools.

You embellish my life, I cherish your love, trust and the time you take just to make me smile

My eyes awe at the sight of your visage. It must have taken God eight days to perfect you before his eyes.

You gave me hope when I thought I  was lost. Your voice is melody echoing the sounds of joy.

In your arms, I am in a garden of heaven basking in bliss, resting in peace but alive and indeed enjoying the aroma of elation swaying with the wind.

Your mind is an abyss sated with emptiness,spore of an ink-jet,
the heart is erupting with repugnant repulsiveness.
Your conscience ravage by your impulsive act.
You indulge in savagery shackled by misery creativity is a mystery .

You diverged from an honest life and now you're perjuring in art you dark-prowlers.
Converged with parasites marauding, Proud-Writers.

Cursed with uncertainty you're embracing lies, in the realm of thieves there's a decaying crown.

The heart grows warm as the fog is lifted. While the warm light rises above the sun, enlightening the blinded but gifted.

Amated by The smell of roses, swaying with the wind while it caresses the skin, enchanting the soul as you gently breath.
The mind calm as the breeze, teeming with serene thoughts and bliss. Elation being the kiss from nature at peace.

As the day retired the moon provided a sit and we gazed at the sunset while the roses went to sleep.

I'm horrified by atrocious images that consume my mind. Society is the devil without horns feeding me lies.
When the truth is, paedophiles hide behind the robes of the pope.
Pigs bath in the mud of corruption, assume high positions, incarcerate victims while the streets are flooded with villians.
I'm in a forest of lost souls and weeping spirits, where beauty is another fallen tree.
I realise that heroes are but words and words have become the heroes.

I am wounded by questions, as to why I do not honour the beauty of love, but an eagle can not dance in the clouds without its feathers. Shackled by the chains of misery, I find that in love I can not go further.
I'm an iron bent by the hammer of pain. My path is abundant with emptiness, love is yet to lead me astray.

In the rain of my tears I see a rainbow coloured with hope of escaping my fears enlightening my heart as the path to love appears.

Eyes pierce through the empty space you occupy. Silent echoes, your vocal renounced by the wind. Standing at the shore of waves and storms, you surrender to the inevitable as the sun rises.

I'm the fruit from the tree of the northern desert.
Where the grounds are dehydrated with  cracks  that run deep in their skins.
Bleeding the veins of plants to the last drop.
Draining the essence of all living things and yet still a victim of The unquechable thirst.
The heat forever calescent. The tree pleading to the sky for a drop of hope, for angels to cry and bless us with tears of joy.

I
am just letters, alphabets. But is that all I am? Is it really all that
I am?

I've been used to blossom flowers and array them with colours, to
admire beauty,as a  river to wash away sorrows as hope for a brighter tomorrow.

I'm in a web of scandals used  as a weapon for the bottom feeders, changing the views of mankind, giving birth to leaders.

I've felt the gentle hand of a lover, the pain of a broken heart,the tears of despaired minds, the fears of victimized villians burdened with pride.

The path to freedom is my illusion
As the light at the end of one tunnel is a light to another tunnel.

I've witness horrors in places that were hollow
I'm forever in an abyss of blissful sorrows .

Centuries after centuries I've been a mirror for reflecting notions and emotions,I confess
I am a donkey exhausted but allowed no rest.

I await the day when the last man  lays down his pen and
welcomes the grim reaper as an old friend, I too would be able to finally rest

The beauty of the beast is
the beast within the beauty.
To this I was blind, until my eyes were open by rib-breaking-swords aiming straight
for my only weakness.

The mirror of your image is a broken glass.
Reflecting the scars you embedded in this heart.

Do I drown myself in a river of poison or do I close my eyes and hope that tommorow will shed sorrows and mend my heart.

The pen trembles, the paper perspires,the hand remains steady. Or is the mind weary and reality an illusion within a dream?
Infatuated with harmonising every line. Your mind is violent but your words are quite. incessantly bleeding the pen but there is no pain in your words, just anarchic serenity as you conclude with tranquil tragedies.

I once saw a rose amongst xanthic flowers, even the thorns were nothing short of perfection before these eyes. time passes by as we fail to realise that it is forever an unassailable overflowing river.
Now I find myself in a garden of neanirmophics, where eyes are deceived by the beauty of decaying roses.

At the shore of the ocean I saw
a penguine flapping it's wings climbing the wind,
left the sky shattered
Into pieces I couldn't breath.

Feathers fell from the sky and
lifted what was left behind.
I closed my eyes and continued living blind.