My dear
what are you doing?

If I were young and romantic
I would stay,
wondering what changed
and searching my soul for my errors

and you would write poems
about how we "grew apart"
and about how I never "got" you

But I am not young
and probably not romantic

So instead you will write poems
about how unfair it was for me to leave
and about how I was the only one who ever "got" you

You leave me no other choice
because in your mind
"we" have already become a memory

And reality could never compete.

He stretched his alienated existence
Under the embellished blanket of a calm night
But sleep rejected to embrace his weariness,
Instead handed him over
To the Imperial clutches of insomnia
And his frustrated gazes wandered
To chat with the desolations of night.
Nothing in the night was appealing
Apart from the elegance of bright moon
Shining, miles away like a new hope
On the horizon of his melancholy.
He secretly whispered to her
The reasons of his despondency
And like every other beautiful creature
The callous moon denied him sanctuary
And responded by hiding herself
Beneath the the layer of ominous clouds.

© Badee Uz Zaman

Beyond the plains where the Buffalo once roamed beyond counting, among the tumble weeds and vast dry plains. There are footprints left by giants that have been around since before the time of man, vast crevices and gorges carved out of the rock of the earth. Canyons of great beauty that were created in time that cannot be measured in mortal days. Glaciers and mountains moving at a snails pace, cutting deep into the earth and grinding out these trails. Places deep beyond imagining, where clear water flows and streaks of color lay along the sides. While man leaves scarcely a footprint, the legacy of these wonders of nature will surpass all of the monuments that mortal hands can create and will be there long after we have left this earth as testimony of things that we are yet too young to understand.

bodies are galaxies;
and within ours
constellations
go all rogue in seconds,
talking to each other
without
permission and consent;
without our knowledge;
there is a plot
behind our backs,
a conspiracy
of unexplored possibilities;
and like plastic dolls
at the hands of gods
we are drawn so close,
a clash ensues
of comfort zones
with the aid of gravity;
we'll regain control,
of course,
just before impact