I once saw a beautiful garden.
Between the red road and a beautiful sea,
curiosity got the better of me
and I examined all the greenery.

The flowers, with their remarkable beauty,
stands out among the rest.
Picked by everyone who passes by,
adored and treated well.
But as they grow old and wither,
used and tattered like pieces of paper,
they are thrown and replaced by another.

The trees, while not the most beautiful,
are sturdy and tall.
From a simple seed they grow,
years of patience and suffering they endured,
just for that view on the top.
But not every seed survives,
for storms can take their roots off the ground,
and take their hopes away anytime.

And then there's the grass,
lying about on the soil,
stepped on by everyone
and barely getting by.
They are not pretty nor sturdy.
They have nothing special.
But still they try.
To grow taller and taller,
so they can at least see the view,
and enjoy the breeze at the top.

And as I left the garden,
I looked back and smiled,
Because even though they're different
They live in perfect harmony.
Because they all just want to see,
the view at the top.

I've often wondered
What it would be like
To die by the pen.
Hold myself down
Between paper and ink.
Turn my art against me
And be killed by my own creations.

Because the world was never meant to be unfolded. A sphere with horizontal illusions, ghost hands tugging the strings of its puppets. Cut the core, force it open, its life-being oozes out. Blood on your hands! The cosmos sing a siren’s song, narrating your imminent departure. Death has come knocking and you’ve reached the end of the road.
Hands reaching for the icy door ****, ignorant to your proposed actions of cowardice. A molecule of your cramped finger contacted the handle, transmittings bolts of Zeus’ mighty power through your veins, reaching the crown of your head, dropping explosions of trepidation.
The sand clock grows anorexic. Teeth chattering seizures, a panic attempt to shake off Fate’s shackles, bellowing prayers you could not initiate. Growth of perspiration a physical secretion of your anxieties, the beads forming constellations, symbolizing Death, cascaded, tracing the hollows of your cheeks, the contour of your face, the valleys of naviety, mocking the seconds sinking.
Grasp onto the latch. The future awaits you. The Three Winged Seraphs guiding their blade, stroking the String with your name, so deliciously yearning. Release my tensions.
A rebel against your demands, your hands animated to life- Come to life! rotates the mechanism, summoning the hinges to succumb.
The last grains in the sand clock streams down, descending a route of design. Envisioning a waterfall, so pristine, so innocent, so natural its intent.
The String relishes its fragility and vulnerability, purring against the caresses of the Blade. Like dead skin curling, the wings of the String spread. Expanding, preparing to take flight.
Three, two, one. The last revolutionary Will continues to fight a dying battle.
The mercenary lays his eyes upon Death.
Could Death ever look angelic? A familiar face combing through your mangled hair. From the time you were conceived into a stranger’s world, you were en route to Him. Spiting all human faith, He was the true messiah. A messiah cloaked in Lucifer’s shadow.
Innumerable anecdotes to be contrived, however has he once broken a promise? He was fair and just. Not a soul was mercilessly shut off from Him. Though He was shunned from His children, passed on from father to son through word of mouth, did he not offer paradise at the end?
Death opened his arms vowing Zion.
A matrimony.

I still remember the first day I saw you
Tucked in the embrace of mediocrity
Pulsating with colour, reverberating enigma
You were the manifestation of a fantastical wonder, a trip down an abyssal Zion
Enthralled, I swooned, rendered insensible
Solace you promised but royally robed with animosity
Like moth attracted to lighted objects, I mustered strength and toiled on
How am I to deduce you?
A wise lady should've warned me just as she did the great hero, 'Hardship does so soon age it's men'
My heart like wax, deteriorated from your scorching insolence
Sagacious men with a time bomb vault.
Knitted the world a beautiful creation from the fabrics of their life.
Why is every poem a puzzle?
Old men drowned in their pool of reflections and many years later, I am here trying to understand their words.

There came an image in Life’s retinue
That had Love’s wings and bore his gonfalon:
Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon,
O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue!
Bewildering sounds, such as Spring wakens to,
Shook in its folds; and through my heart its power
Sped trackless as the immemorable hour
When birth’s dark portal groaned and all was new.

But a veiled woman followed, and she caught
The banner round its staff, to furl and cling,—
Then plucked a feather from the bearer’s wing,
And held it to his lips that stirred it not,
And said to me, ‘Behold, there is no breath:
I and this Love are one, and I am Death.’