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

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.

Down a path where arteries will meet the scythe.
Deceased silhouettes suffocating in defeat.

A spark struggles to illuminate the way before the feet.
cloaked in disbelief, conversing with grief.

Climbing an empty ladder,
dreams clustered beyond reach.
With worn bones aiming to reach beyond the known peak.

My life is foretold in every crevice of this universe,
in serene seas, and swaying sands,
in scorching degrees and holding hands,
with a lover in my longing arms,
fires raging, and yet i am sheltered from harm.
and throughout my journeys,
it is my deepest desire,
to ignite and set my ambitions on fire,
in the midst of euphoric dreaming,
with my lover on this late summer's evening.
and i shall be at one with the stars,
and my doors in life shall forever remain ajar.

Walk into this space it is endless
sublime congruence with the heavens
open is the third eye looking directly at abyss
i feel a divine hint on my skin
as if it were a celestial kiss
there is no need to travel in doubt
it is written across the evening canvas
open the gates of exotic awareness

It is writhing, it is gifting, entrusting me, and quaking,
yet I, within mine, remain still.
Fore be it told, and beneath footless form, it's subversive,
yet, I dance a sure tango, uphill.
I must be sure, so sure not to mind lone notches and disparity,
as crevices, you see, they arch to transverse.
Fearing but forging the depths of what is migration, we say,
from this hallowed tangle be my rise, my verse.

I’m floundering, I grant, when I think I hold discovery,
so, I tug at the rein of imprint and plan.
It is here my beloved reliance, my precious doubtless tread
is afforded the fair crossing of Pan.
So, although it contests and chides and outreaches,
I am in love and as love, an apprentice.
A conquest won, no never, but here, a concession, a regard-
I am, with no poet’s journey, amiss.**

Lilting ebulliently in ineffable fields of ecstasy.
Mellifluous waves, in life's voyage,
inure us to pulchritude paths, refined by old age.
Multifarious, nascent jubilant days, swaying in paint,
array the way as we sail away.

Malignant Mindless Maternal, Maliciously Moulding murderous Motives.

The Peternal parted prior the proof of pregnancy, the tears of heaven gave
birth to emergencies.

On the highway way of pain lonely and melancholy on coming traffic was a thunder stream.
tradegy waiting impatiently like an honest thieve.

Her feet heavy, a womb of twins is what she carried.
The clouds washing sins from the tarmac her screams unheard,
she gave birth in silence.

Two healthy beautiful boys, baptised by the rain.
The pain she borne was no more, propelling the boys over the bridge.
The umbilical cords around their vocal cords.
Death was born and LIFE was lost

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 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 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.

Caramel lips, with a body bathed in whipped cream and melted chocolate. With a taste that invigorates every last sansation within.

my eyes are hypnotised as she softly whispers in my ears to dine and delight. Leading me to temples of pleasure.
Her fingers as soft as feathers of golden eagles.
I'm riddled as to why I feel so feeble.

she has mastered the art of knismesis while I am still an apprentince.
temptation consumes me whole, while she moans I indulge in her as the night slowly... grows

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.

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 last light fading
Breaths incapsulated
Blood red eyes
The last struggle
Kicking and boxing towards the sky
Hoping to see the light
In murky dwellings of whales and sharks
Afraid, dazed and crushed
The grip on life fades like dusks, while praying for the sunrise

FLAMES from furious friends fighting ferocious fears, forever fueling fuminous faith.

INCESSANTLY incinerating innocence in innerselves. Insidiously influencing introspective introverts.

RISING rapidly.
radically rapturing rectitude rampantly, reconcering raibors.

ENDLESSLY eclipting ecstatic event. enecting eruptions.
eradicating elation .

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.

She is
The heart of poetry,
The cynosure in art,
The spirit of love
That renews honesty.
More precious than
Jewels of God,
mesmerising
arch angels in the centre of heaven having more love than two hearts combine, she's alive and so are we as she imbues us with her life.

The roof is only a foundation, the sky above our heads is the ground beneath her feet and still she is down to earth.

The sun reside within her chest, glistering as she stands, with eyes made of pearls gaze into them and witness fields of elation emerge,where harmony is the ying and melody the yang.

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.

We used to paint oceans of sorio lillies, across the sky pouring tears of life.
Merging memories of sore pasts and saw paths that revamped lost plants.
Without a seed, groomed roses and blossomed fields of dying daisies daily decaying dim.

Her kiss embellished wrathful storms,with red feathers of white birds drifting to the shore, of fine sand born from light zones in dark ends.

Now she's a ghost, a spirit of a wild mild mind in an abyss of enraged beasts. She's alive and breaths still,but her breath passes by the trees as though another leaf carried by the wind.
Is she in a coffin inside a casket buried beneath the garden of joy but only ripping despair, gloriously singing by herself?

.       **You're A Gift From God              
                  At His Moment
                           Of Joy

Her Aura is the aurora in Crystal skies, when she smiles heaven is alive, within her heart you'll find the sanctuary for love.

My heart would betray me for her and lead me to places where joy rids me of despair.
Consumed completely by love I'm dared by bliss, a stranger I've never met.
My mind a gallery of her beauty,
priceless masterpieces I shall never part with.

Starve me of food and water I can survive, but away from her arms I lose the meaning of life.

I'm tilted and insist that you know I am grateful now here we
are-
an alliance. Let's see ourselves onwards, be borne by our
fondness-in accord, be our love for the colloquy.

Spry, exuberant. We are free spirits draining oceans of ink, bathing in rivers of lies to find the truth while saturated by pride.
We are propelled to propinquity, as we seek for a better prospect while drowning in propensity.

Our hearts bleed onto the paper,
wanting more love of passion
to spill out endlessly,
so others can relate
to share this burning fire
Deep within our souls.
we seek endlessly for acceptance and relatability,
with someone who we can feel
safe to share these wonderful feelings,
feelings of want from our vulnerable hearts.

In sharing our vulnerable hearts,
I becomes We
the divine flame burns brightly, guiding lonely souls
to meet heart to heart on this happy road of destiny
a stream of gratitude flows from our bloods, and we discover that we write to connect
to the divine source that empties us and fills us.

We came from wombs of literature baptized in wisdom of poets
teeming with knowledge
the cranium about to crack crowns not bestowed but earned

The anguish suffered and absorbed by those who wrote before us
laid grounds for the battle royal

The throne forged from fallen pens the smell of burning paper still alive
Across the journey we must embark to arrive and claim the crown

It is but the path before us to spill the blood, to travel the Trail of Tears
Speak it all in words that communicate your fears

Engulf me with melody only for a moment and I'll walk the forest of hunted wolves and despondent lions.

The once ambrosial aroma of frail lilies, a smothering hebenon hand. The rays shy away from the polygamy of reapers and senectitude relishing valiant men.

Immerse me in harmonious symphonies only for a moment and I'll tread the trench terrane with jubilent feet, blind to the alluring viper's habanera under lacerated hearsecloth worn by the forest.

Our wealth an unfaithful wife, she's sooner gone when perils knock.
A bridegroom to poverty you may find yourself. A glutton, not a meal will she spare.

Our vessels, dust that longs for dust, in daily decay.
Our habitats, pedestrians in paths of typhoons and waves.
Our families, cups of bliss, a well of dismay.

We dull the mind in sewers, with each sip an illusion of joy resumes, as sorrows sleep.

A well of eternal bliss longed for having rejected The Owner. The springs of life freely flows but sewers we have preferred.
The spring of life flows freely the invitation has been shared.

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

Why do say love is blind or is for fools?
You drown your blankets with seas from your eyes. Convincing yourself your chest is not one full of treasure, but needles at war with your heart.

Is this what you call love?
This is infatuation, it's lust, it's desire to benefit yourself with no regards for the one you burn towards.

Will you not learn from nature?
trees revive you with oxygen as you breathe. the rivers feed the clouds and the clouds rain and feed the rivers.

Where is sorrow there?
Where are the needles you curse?

Leave your sorrows, they are not worthy of You. Realise that Love is a circle of beneficence, sacrificing itself for the welfare of others.

Benign, benevolent ballerina bubbly bathing by beautiful blossoming balsams.

A gander I took and I was a statue, still, allured, and enchanted. my lips basted by beauty, before her I was an apparition, lost in forests of adulation.

A vanishing spirit soon to be a vestige of a vestige. I shall wage wars, arm myself and battle my way to her hands that can melt the glaciers residing in my heart.

It's been an honor. Thank you all for supporting me, teaching me how to be a poet I very much appreciate it but for now I have to be one with the wind.

I'll be back as soon my future is certain, education is as they say the path to all paths.

I love you all

.          IF I WERE A POET

                             The
                     First stanza
                     would be a      
       magnatic attic captivating
            Elegant architects of
                     iridescence  
                        Vividly
       propelling pupils to edges
                 Of the schleras        
        Compelling pens to pages
                    of new eras
    

            IF I WERE A POET
                                
                         ­              The
                              Second
                 Stanza would
             Mirror Zues's
          spear slicing through
        tears drowning in clouds
         striking fields of pens
                        Egniting the
                    capsules of
                 Variegated
               Lands


            IF I WERE A POET

                            The
                     Last stanza
             would sail summers
           tame winters bathe in  
         springs of autumn praise  
           deeds of the monarchs
           reigning over raining
           rainbows nurturing the
         clouds planting wings on
       the ground giving free will
          to plants to seed the sky  
           with warmth and love
                of nature's 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.

Moles with wings, how is the sky suppose to breathe
From notions of blunt pencils that we never read?
Words baled within the mind, you're prisoner confined in pages aging, facing life setences.
The Size of your pen is,
Still judged by the masses.

There's no peak but pick up the pace without being haste.
Peeking in pools of fame will drown your gaze.

Shoes within rules fit perfectly,
when they broom the room of humes endlessly.

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.

Kissed by God she is love itself, untaintend by ways of man.
In the world of the dying, she spreads her love, replenishing broken hearts.

In her alluring eyes, you can gaze at the universe as it unfolds.
With a ballet of stars along the milky-way.
Singing life's song as the mystry fades
Joined by those who sleep in hope
Revived as they come to know.
life is love

Flummoxed,
In labyrinths of
Baleful forests with
eyes of gibbet makers
and buried undertakers.
In gloaming sights,
hobbling towards the light.
The silver teeth of
obeisance sundering will,
plundering peace,
blazoning smiles of
malicious beings.

Deep wounds on my back, I'm a gallery of scars. Take a gander feast your eyes, a tarnished heart is my signature.

Vistiges of my soul dangling on toothpicks, dinner well relished by friends foes glimmer with empathy. Malice pleased, who is my enemy?

The excrement of animals drowning in the sewers, is that the existence the best of self I can only persue huh?

A warrior's last breath asking for help. Will I sleep quietly without a helping hand,
Will I sleep quietly without a helping hand?

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.

.                      *
                            The
                            Xyr-
                       ­    -esic
                   Steel of justice
             Real and unfogiving
                        Cutting
                        through  
                        Foes  of
                        The thr-
                       -one pro-
                       - tecting
                        Friends
                        F­orever
                        presev -
                        -ing pe-
                          -ace
                             .

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.

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.

The silk of nature the gentle hands of  
   a loving mother placidly rubbing
                      swollen feet

The crystal of murmaids shimmering
   ashore mirroring the rainbows as
     though a priceless gold infused
             with diamonds of God

I'm lost in bliss gazing at the beauty
        of this magnificent field of
                     transparency