Meenu Syriac

Meenu Syriac Nov 2014

Moribund

Will sweet dreams with the sourest links to you, be traced?
As unkind dreams, they come to haunt.
But shadows loom under the sky of a setting sun,
Will angels come as the walls fall down?
Death comes with a silent taunt
Sands of time, a mirage left intact in the world's eye.
Show me meaning, show me life,
With the dawn comes light,
So why does it feel like I can never wake up?

Meenu Syriac Nov 2014

Judith

Because all her teardrops fell like snowflakes,
And when summer came, they melted into the ground.
Like dew drops hanging in the mist,
She gave what a fairytale needed,
To end the plight.
And with her music she brought tears to his eyes,
With every note that struck air and made life.
But if the stars might burn with all the fiery warmth of her heart
Then they may know all the tears she's wiped with her hand.
The muffled screams, pocketed within the deepest trenches of her heart.
Only a shadow remains where once she knew light,
Because his eyes could hold no more of her sight,
And in every dark alley, pledged his allegiance to the night.
She was once all he had,
But now his soul he sold to the devil's reign.
Slowly slipping into darkness... Her image reflected in his eyes
Judith, like dust, you fly with the passing wind,
*A memory forgotten in his mind.

©Meenu Syriac

Meenu Syriac Nov 2014

Her Flames of Glory

She laid down in flames of glory
Flawless lust to the shine that leaves him breathless.
Her eyes as radiant as the moonlight reflected by the waters.
Her image was as fiery as the fire
That burnt his own heart at night.
Her flaming self running,
Into nothing but darkness.
And he ran thru the cold night,
Calling her name out.
Into the darkness her soul walked,
Leaving him burning,
Suddenly awoken, an ache in his chest,
With a name he cannot remember
And a face he cannot forget,
As the sunlight streams into his room.

Meenu Syriac Nov 2014

An Ode to a Journey back Home

On a ship back home,
These high sailing seas
Tear this weary soul of mine.
And the deafening roars of the gods,
Ascertained with every thunder that rocks.
With every wind that wails,
My heart longs,
To see the ends of these dark waters.
As the rising tides commune,
Fear drives me away,
*But hope guides me home.

Meenu Syriac Oct 2014

Time

He's been waiting,
Watching the leaves fall with the autumn sky
With every breath that fogs up the glass
And every flower that blooms in his hand.
Days, months, years gone,
He's been waiting
Counting the stars.
He's been waiting
Only believing in
What he knows inside,
Waiting, with every dawn and dusk
That goes by.
And as her face, inked in his mind
Her eyes, soft with wanting,
By his side,
Like a gentle breeze,
Her voice, like the rise and fall of tide
Yes.
And this time, he knows,
It's not just another dream.

©Meenu Syriac

Meenu Syriac Oct 2014

Plastic Puppets

As dawn breaks the paradoxical darkness of night,
Sunlight splitting through a canopy of concrete mazes, sky high
Shielding, towering, blinding
All wonders of the skies.
In them, we crawl, owning but tiny spaces,
Shelved into cubicles, and packed in plastic,
Tagged, named, priced and gagged.
Tube lights shine brighter,
Whereas the sun burns us alive.
And with this day to night, night to day meaningless plight of life,
Caged within boxes,
Claiming to be closer than ever before.
Endless shards of colored glasses,
Surround every corner of these walls.
And we crawl, on all fours,
Instinctive human nature,
Communicating with the sound of our souls,
Wailing beneath the surface, weeping behind screens.
Lost in this concrete jungle,
Finding purpose to life,
Searching for wonders of the mind,
Destructive, intelligent,
Yet foolishly locked in a perpetual cycle
Of muted perceptions.

©Meenu Syriac

Oct 2014

Chris Weallans

To Write

It starts
in the quiet
itching in the fingers
like new skin knitting under blistered burns.

I have always written.
Before I had my letters
(before the lessons
with stubby pencils
curving sense out of the air)
I would scrawl nonsense waves
folding and boiling
in a crash of senseless surf
onto pages meant for pictures

I scribbled a whole Atlantic
before sense and sound
delivered the waves to reason.

I still find it hard,
when writing,
not to let the rolling sea
scatter into fragment waves
that whisper into the breeze of my fingers.

I have tried many addictions,
I have spent people like money.
I have tied my hands
to stop from fussing at the leaves.
If I ever loved I left it still spinning,
but I have never lost the itch

a pen to scratch its bleed of ink
into a sweet clean ****** page.
To scrawl my feint history
in every broken harbour
of her yielding skin.