Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again

Distant thunders of  wars threaten
my peaceful
landscape of sleep,
in bed I twist and turn
shocked by the cries of
people getting killed for
reasons hidden or unknown;
when lives get complex
like tangled knotted  strings,
for death to snap it
hardly needs  any reason.

Bombs explode and light
a wild fire of destructions,
creating an illusion, that
it's just a happy fire works.
Misery has it's reign everywhere;
women  are unconsolable in grief,
men are  in moral turmoil.

Waking up I realize,
nightmares come in waves
soaking up waking hours with remorse
in our sad sordid times.
Bad dreams at night are merciful
as one is insulated from
being a nervous wreck.
how could one look away
when one is  bleeding from
the  eyes like a martyr?

Mothers are wailing,
fathers go missing, all of a sudden
children are made orphans
with no place to call their own.
Nobody seems to be concerned;
no one  any more is
the keeper of one's own
brothers and sisters.

The world collects statistics
and explanations dutifully,
reports are written
and stalked in shelves;
all hyperbole, lies and nonsense
signifying nothing,
in a wold broiled as
love had gone missing.

In this silent  night, smelling blood
of sacrificial lambs,
a  pale moon hangs low
like  human conscience;
  silent witness or accomplice?
We stand here in the shadows confused;
"Aren't we trudging back to darkness?"