A sad emotive
Blue ballad from
The broken soul
Of a mute man poet

His heart pounds a silent beat
From deep within
As he begins
To ballet with his fingers
Vocalizing his pain
To the world of blind and deaf
In the monsoon rain
Of his tears

As he express
His feelings and fear
About his future
In this cold world
Of insentient hearts
Being blind, mute or deaf
Doesn’t mean dead

This is the pain
That was easy to swallow
But hard to digest
And now I suggest
To take this fiery feeling
Out of my chest

Because they alienate us
They dig black holes
For us to find homes
Because all we are to the society
We lost souls

To those
Who got eyes to see
And ears to listen
We are just disable clowns
Because we are half human

But to those who got
Minds to think
And hearts to feel
We all human beings

She changes her mind like the weather.
One moment shes a flower blooming in May but with the flip of a switch
shes a cold January blizzard.

Its already December.
Shes disappointed with the lack of snow this year,
as her hearts been stuck in a dull winter.
With wide blue eyes full of fear
she's waiting for death to kiss her.
Spring flowers have been long dead,
Now shes eager for the return of death.
Maybe he took the wrong turn?
He seems to be running late.
For now she's making snow angels out of wilted petals,
patiently awaiting her fate.

suppose words
are water and our bodies, wells—

flat on our bellies, our unsuspecting laughter supersedes their suddenness.

too late to unsay the space they occupy.
they arrive not with wind galloping
through trees.
they continually commit a nuisance
to us here in this decrepit home,
christening us with depthless sleep.

— what transpires beyond these shadowed moments unlearn the hairbreadth syntax of their perilous measures:

even the morning has no promise of May.
i say that in wide-flung hours of April when leaves begin to smoulder a cluster of red in the brindled breast of foliages, and rushed like lions to a slaughter, paring the flesh from the bone, these words unsheathe us more than the Earth shedding its skin — a dull synonym of how we are pressed against walls, our bones outstretched to breaking, ourselves displaced somewhere where the air of rescue does not wholly kiss us.

there is no image fainter than what was painted. no machinery can outlast the weight that is carried —

persisting lovelessly, a ragged meadow.
clambering ceaselessly, the warmest of bodies recoiled in melee.

suppose words
are such black-red thorns becoming petals and stems merely lovelorn, joyful to the eye
and hands are moons the bedfellows uninvited, you hiding behind shadows
    of changeless flowers:

so much the quiet way of this fate
reduced to hair-trigger.

thighed and pried lilies, dew slips frightened to a mist of trouble;
morning sleighs its brilliant face,
  such a luminous beginning to a dislimned end — far less touchingly than
a lullaby, this hot water music scaldingly
  presses on naked and whispers to them
  a new name without forgetfulness.

the weight is immense — anchored down, full of something in excess. there are doors that wish to commence oblivion, windows yearn to squint at the Earth so timidly muted in the body.

suppose your body is a home and the night subtly the wind that blows,
topples the roof-beam —

may your sleep be still and unshaken,
  your unperturbed garden slouches with a bounty of emerging flowers;
may your windows to the soul
  be always ready for birds that secretly
move in virulent strings of melody,

  something the world sings screaming
of life, something the stone of a fool
  so supple in hearing, something
the heavens hold together with the
  purest hand, something we precisely
    dream, such that we

        suppose you angels
  and us, the witnesses.

When your dance a bounty, yet sing
they fail – I have learned to love,
worrisome mother and adorn you:

such a kiss is planted
a rose on the plump cheek of children.
your girth measures unflinchingly,
the laughter of the world around you
so small, kept in a dark, blinkered box.
your parasol smothers the light
cast unswervingly on stone.
who has long kept you in the caliginous womb,
with all the light that spangles through?
who has snuffed your little arms
and dressed you for everyone to see?
when you are quite flamboyant for
everyone to feast on,
what word passes on as salutation?
when you are festive enough to revel in,
what pagoda tries itself to the life
allowed to gleam proudly?

women, men, children, and all -
frolicsome around the darkled bough
smitten by the frayed sight of believing,
sifting from the way our hands
craft things the dispensable glee
of glasswork: the world is Murano.
and my eyes have seen all flourish
in a darling ebb of curbed felicities – the diaphanous
clangour of steel and shadow.
the slain orchestra of frogs in the crush of rain.
the detriment of the Earth curled like an infant
in the womb of the dark.

     - oh trees and their wondrous life of green,
begin to question the wind and its tourniquet;
shadows drunk on turpentine, the spry wilt of hours:
what is their final duty?
   if our laughter is slain in the perils of night,
how are we to become them?

each tempered by slivered moments:
slovenly on the floor lay tethered,
both, separate,
honest light.

when it is time that you do not
see anymore, the shadow of my passing,

when the twilight gives rise,
a felled star in the world,

when damp kisses are beleaguered
by the driest of lips,

out of merely, a wide-eyed vainglory,
there will be nothing that all my songs
send a dancing, tiptoeing light
careful to arrive at one day

when you face is held with utmost care
and my hands not its owner,
but a handful of names.

when it comes that we are two fish
struggling in a current's dream —
not a single twitch is born. you will slip
past the interstice of love's net
and i cannot see you anymore in the
depthless blue.

the intelligence of stone tells me
nothing but silence, hemmed in
to a great monolith of daylight.

i exaggerate, the sinking of ships
and amble blindly with the whole of
my motion, like flotsam weary of its
  preordainment. portraits sow themselves
battles, cleaving them minutely against
  the simmer of quiet. when it is time
to let you go, i will watch you leap forth
  into the ripe air like a child seeking
home, reiterates in flight a height
  i cannot reach for.

when it is time all of this,
    mote it be, clenches in thinned streaks
of turpentine, all of my walls will be clear
  and not a sign of your colour
   will scream pain like a tortured vandal.

Christ does not save us because he is desperate or lonely.
For he does not need the human race for praise or anything.
But because he loves us each with an unconditional Love.
For he has thousand of Angels that Praise him always in heaven.
If he wanted an faithful group , he could raise the Rocks.
To worship him, to Praise him as well, he never did need us.
So realize before this before you pass onto the other side.
It is not Christ that needs us, but it is us that needs Christ.
For even though we are an evil lot, he still wants to be our God.

Staring into darkness
Hoping to see stars
But there's
Nothing
Nothing
There.