Tears of the widower, when he sees
  A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
  And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these;

Which weep a loss for ever new,
  A void where heart on heart reposed;
  And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
Silence, till I be silent too.

Which weeps the comrade of my choice,
  An awful thought, a life removed,
  The human-hearted man I loved,
A Spirit, not a breathing voice.

Come Time, and teach me, many years,
  I do not suffer in a dream;
  For now so strange do these things seem,
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;

My fancies time to rise on wing,
  And glance about the approaching sails,
  As tho' they brought but merchants' bales,
And not the burthen that they bring.

PANIC ATTACKS ARE FUN!


Ayad Gharbawi


A waterless feast for the thirsty
Torturers
Struggling to restrain their base Infamy
Hungry ravenous ******* eyes
Smiling grotesquely
At their Prey
Wingless birds
The nightmare is still swirling in its
Intensity
Variations of horror
And perpetual stalking fear
Shaking eyeballs
Blurring visions
Colours far too strong
Piercing
Sweating inside
Palpitating heart
Driest mouth
Piercing
Beyond any reason
Pointlessly running
From the excessively, maniacal seething Fear
Never ending
The deformed visions deepen
Yet disconnecting themselves
From my shaking Self
Withering my ‘I’
I see a threatening ugliness staring at me
I know
I am victimized
How can I get out of this?
Filthy stench of a greasy pit!
Where are the maps?
The guidelines?
Where are the physicians?
Promoting this vicious
Civilization
That I do swear
Is even sicker than I am
For you have left us all
Stranded
Surrounded
In a surreally insane No Man’s Land

The truth hurts, naturally,
I can break you down
To what you truly are,
Which isn’t much
And to be honest
It never really
Got that far.

We began innocently enough.
I certainly never set out to transform
from no one
into such a staunch example of judgment.
“confidence,” you scream,
and I cry, hoping for it.
You will never hear my respect
if you never let me speak!

And as much as the words I never said
cut you to the bone,
the assumptions you make--
that I would ever stoop that low,
bleed me dry and empty
of the blue blood that keeps me yellow.

To hear from party three and source
that you will still believe only yourself
when the evidence has cleared
a stone-faced jury
causes me to continually ponder
where I got these horns and triton.

I remember like a dream
that you yourself burned that triton
straight to my palm forever
and painted my tear-streaked eyes
to match these bleeding horns
you’ve driven deep into my skull.
They cause me to forget myself
and worship you in *******
as sacrilege sneers.