I wanted to speak of his powers
As King preached for liberty
The world seems to know of legends and Englishmen behind platforms
of heroes and villains on stages
and maybe of some med students explaining how unprotected *** leads to ***
But tongues have not yet spoken of his rampant ability
to be a beacon and a tempest
how he could raze and raise
abate and abet
I wanted to tell them
Why the soil recall his footsteps
And the leaves hiss as he exhales
But he dresses in polyester and he even walks unmasked
Everyone speaks of anarchism and GMOs
Then fetch a beer and watch the football game on live stream
I wonder if roses are cowards which embrace their raspy thorns
But then I remember how I would grasp you in a heartbeat
And I wanted to tell the world of your powers

A poem was always supposed to heal, or to help; at least in a way or another.
But this time is different, not even Rumi can do the work.
My mind is in a blank state-it has shut down.
With a trembling body and shaking wrists
Stealing glances and guilty kisses
Amongst each panic attack I drive through
I sense your sighs and get charged
Then see your phone screen and drop down
My nerves are threads ablaze
She has bigger eyes, her body is steady and so are her wrists
But she does not admire that surgical scar of yours
I seek refuge in it and that's the problem, I guess
She claims ownership, it is her right after all
She is priority
You write her name on every bill board
And I hold the ladder for you
You are writing my death note, you know
But these matters are small
For your phone screen will still glow
With messages that will make you grin
She demands ownership, it is her right after all
As I fight Gods to get those grains of sand you once stepped on
But she is priority, she is royalty.
This is not a poem, it is a tribute
To the time when I breathed you in and you breathed me out
We could have breathed forever
But my cells are attacking one another
And my mind is in a blank state
I have already mentioned that
But you see, I can not hold that ladder anymore
And I am in no state at all
Not one of priority - obviously.

I shall embalm the stars and hang them at your girdle,
There where pansies lie; free and mobile.
And I shall dress you in mountains,
Hoping that immortality and rise;
Would profoundly suffice.
But I don't have the means to do
What my senses inspire me to.
Thus, allow me to write you
In words more naked than flesh
With blood-drops; raw and grandiose.
Allow me to embellish the linings of your skin
With sacred letters and ambiguous hints.
I will meet you one day
At dawn or morn,
And we will foresee our radiant yore.
To the one I deeply venerate,
To whom my affection is inordinate.

It roams the streets,
That archaic figure - unaware of that voyage.
It is skinned, a little pale perhaps.
Seeking a beacon, a red light.
Amongst the people.
They are numbers.
They never tend to amaze me.
But there is something difficult to comprehend about that flesh; that tongue; the earthly scent of your mouth.
I roam the streets; how finite that voyage seems.
Your hometown; your current workplace.
They are not real, they are not you.
However, I am you - your keen countenance; the inked unsolvable equation.
It is jubilant - clutching your skin like a saviour.
Prepare your dirge,
Prepare the pansies.
My bones are leaving; my fingernails - weakening.
I am perilous by too much soul.
By the smoke that is reaching out.
My last forlorn attempt is not foreseeable.
*Find me before I find myself.

Eight months since I have seen
Green oak trees and glowing kites
Pale blue skies and star-crowded nights

Eight are the layers of pain
that have not seen any light
Eight are the loaded pistols of nostalgia
stacked on my shoulders

What is Eight?
To some; legs of a spider or that of an octopus
But Eight is the number printed on your football jersey

Maybe Eight are the cookies in that rusty jar;
But Eight is the day
of the eighth month
when you followed my paths

When the cold breeze hits me
as I smoke my eighth cigarette
and travel back in time
to when I rose in your love
up to the eighth sky

a rainbow of seven fears hit me by
and a force of friction dragged me back
to fall back in love with you
deep into eighth ground

*To the Eight I've always favored
I bitterly make a toast
Here's to the only number
that now I loathe the most