Fire, for passion, desire and rage,
Incinerated fingers bleeding over pieces of paper and rusting squeaking chains,
which hang on ceilings of limestone and sins,
Hosting windows through which letters scattered and blew away in the wind,
The nails and screws which lie n the ground,
they pierce the floors we built -the floors scream, yet we hear no sound,
We walk with one foot in the grave,
have we lost our minds? -these minds wish to abrase!

Stumbling over rocks as we clash with the storms,
we tremble and we cower, and we yearn for an abode,
but when the rain sings, we run from the pour,
For a haven, a shelter, maybe in the worlds out yonder,
Down below the Earth, a place with no sonder.
Yet, there is no proof of despondency, blood or perdition,
but have we ever really walked along the path of retribution?

Water, to drown out the voices in our heads,
to erode the miseries and tear away the stead,
to quench the thirst that never dies out,
When we wish for a fire that doesn't extinguish; for a scripture, a route.
But what can I say when I plead and I plead, but I am paid no heed?

I used to walk in gardens that held an aura of purity,
my thoughts were friends, and I bathed in disillusioned clarity,
The scars on my body were merely scrapes on knees,
When I fell from the swings or staggered down branches of trees,
Now, I live in shadows which kiss my eyes,
They hold me tight and whisper the lies,
Lies which carve the truth in my mind;
And at the dark hours, the truth on why I rely,
Stabs me repeatedly as I fight the tremors at night.

I throw knives at canvases and I create art,
as my eyes accompany dark moons, and wounds mark my heart.
Ropes on ladders, all broken and knotted,
The deserted rooms and empty hallways, the drawers I've sought in,
For feathers and footsteps, for answers and frozen clocks,
For the sound of the past, the bullets we shot,
The bracelets and bangles I wore on these wrists,
The rings and promises I once clenched in these fists.
I breathe and I clench this pen on a brink,
and when they take away my paper, I’ll ink the words on my skin.

thoughts, they are
        smoke escaping from chimneys and clouding darkened skies,
skies home to birds flapping their wings trying to fly,
thoughts are flying bricks falling all at once on shoulders already holding weights,
weighing the night's silence on open palms
and fingers blackened with soot
hold feathers plucked from tree branches,
seeking to clean bloodied slates
in gardens where dreams flow down the river into caves
-caves with lights at the end of tunnels,
and lamps which flicker during storms and
lightning which penetrates even closed eyes.
                       thoughts, they are
companions with opens arms which sometimes have
knives hidden up their sleeves,
and they are wells
which hold coins-
silver, gold, bronze and brass.
dreams and wishes fondled by the gentle, sometimes
     corrosive current of waves
and shadows which carry the tube light just so they stay alive.
     but these thoughts, they are also
my reason for you,
chains and leaves hanging with ease around a neck and rings which sing like canaries on insomniac fingers
   and crimson letters carrying pictures, so
with that is my justice,
because with your name they give me solace, and
with your image they give me peace
and with the sound of your voice in the meadows of my mind,
i find tranquility.
and with the shadows that follow on my heels, i laugh and i smile,
    because with these thoughts
i am with you and you,
          you are
with me
---------

I have felt the heat of a thousand flames,
And witnessed the shattering of all of my hearts,
Every word that escaped my mouth,
Couldn't have been as blessed as your name.

I have swum in a thousand lakes,
And I've drowned in each one,
with every breath a synapse of obliteration,
And every heave of my soul the collaboration of all your suns.

All my feathers lie in abysmal reticence,
In reaches of an hour glass filled with ashes,
Where every ash is the increment,
Of promised prayers of retribution.

There aren't many things I know forsure,
For the world fades unto oblivion with every breath it takes,
There couldn't have been anything more obscene,
Then the innocense of your allure.

But what I do know in bits and pieces,
with closed eyes and whispered hope,
Is that there lies a certain virtue,
In the reaches of being a prisoner of the exhuberance of your soul...

And I don't know how many days have passed since the moment I started wondering about the tempest that came with the realization of existence.
And I don't know how many hours of those days I wondered about whether I was the spawn being played on the chessboard, or whether I was the knight that was eliminated.
And I don't know how many minutes of those hours I spent burning myself with the matchstick that would soon be incinerated like the string of emotions within me, nor do I know of whether I am the pheonix, or whether I am merely its ashes that were washed away with the rain. And I do not know how many seconds of those minutes I sought refuge in, nor have I paid any heed to the spasms that overtook me on the bridges in the photographs of the yesterdays. And I know not of how many lives I led in those seconds. And in those minutes, my memory fades unto, and in those hours, I write the stories, and in those days, I throw the paints onto the streets, so that they flow through the nooks and crannies and spread a few colours that I knew not of, for all I really knew was that my insomnia visited me when I missed you the most.

She wrote like she was struggling to breathe, like
she was running after a train
barefooted
on railway tracks in the middle of winter, shivering
shuddering, holding on
to nothing at all but
being held
by screaming words
tugging at her feet and biting
into the ridges on her fingers

She wrote like all the clocks in the world had
come to a stand still, though
days continued to pass, like
the fluttering pages of an abandoned book
in the midst of a raging storm

She wrote sometimes like hail, pattering
against steel-coated frozen rooftops, falling against
doors left ajar
bruising faces which taught her, how
to shoot bullets

At other times, she wrote like a gentle breeze, like the scent
of rosewater and jasmine, and dirt
lovingly caressed by morning dewdrops, and
her words, they
sometimes danced across paper, swaying with
a trace of a brief smile, and
then they fell with a thud, giggling
in those sudden, fleeting moments of insanity, which
make The Blissful incinerate themselves, into
ashes which blow away in the wind

And then at other times, her words were silent
dark, brooding,  still,
like the darkest corners of a rundown neighbourhood
after midnight, like
the dust which settles on suitcases filled with
forgotten photographs, against
the farthest wall of a quiet room . . .
dark, brooding, still,
like her soul, barred behind wood, engraved
with the whispered words of the shadows of her fears.