I'm afraid of what these hands could do,
For you or to you,
And what they might accomplish
While your back was turned,
Or your eyes closed,
Or your mind off wandering.
It's a ******* misery
That we can't be.
But what if we were?
Would my stomach still eat itself with fear,
Would my nails still pick at my skin,
Would my mind still refuse to rest?
Or would perfection reign?
Rain over both of us
Till we were soaked through
And when we shook our bodies
Water flew from even our bones.

Fear not, my friend, I've rescued you
And set you atop a stone,
Where you can sit and watch the world-
Ah, isn't it lovely all alone?

Don't weep, my child, for you are here
Against your wordly wishes,
But, sometimes what we think is best
Lands us broken and in ditches.

It's better here, above it all,
Look down upon the world-
Clench the day between your fist,
Watch it ooze out of your fingers, curled.

It's easier when you don't think,
For thought has dipped his feet
Into the muddied wishing well
That overflows with deceit.

Oh, fallen angel, does it hurt?
To wash off your bloodied palms,
And stretch your hands out to the sky,
A most perverted kind of alms.

You're safer here, on ground so high
That to look down is enough,
For if you were to take a leap,
Your faith would turn to dust.

Transculent threads run up and down
Old planks of wood-
Upright and close together,
Like distant cousins leaning towards each other
And whispering sweet condolences
At a funeral.
The spider weaves her heavy web
Out of weightless air,
Intricately trapping
Suicidal fruit flies
And drops of dew,
Reflecting off the shriveled corpses of
Unfortunate insects,
Casting a subtle shadow
Upon the indifferent shrubbery:
Infected with parasites that fail to even
Acknowledge his heavy existence.
"I'm here", he desperately wails,
"Beneath your spindly legs
And despair ridden hearts,
Full of something like ambition, but of a different tone,
Beating on and on below your silent wings."
Deaf to his compassion,
They lay tangled in their fate,
Accepting death
From the moment the spider drew close
And caressed their sorry souls with her
Delicate finger tips.
His emerald tendons wear her web-
For, the past won't let him shake it.
An old man
Who keeps the shawl of his late wife,
Wrapped a little too tightly
Around his frail, veiny throat,
Just to know she was once there,
And to keep her from ever really dying.
So the bush cloaks his body
With the cobwebs of the savage spider,
Adorned with corpses
Of insects too passive
To question that which required their lives.
Alone in silent ceremony,
He gravely continues on,
Beneath the dance of life and death,
Yet never fully numb to it all,
His nerves twitch and shake with the presence
Of something gradually taking it's course.
Life flows in and out of his branches,
Like a tumultuous waterfall
Giving life to all around it,
While drowning those too weak to follow
In it's unalterable current.
And so, another day goes by,
But to the forest, it's all the same,
For none can hear the old bush cry,
Mourning each fragile bug by name.

Isabel sits on the rusted garden bench,
my heart misses a beat, yet again as I watch,
her eyes are downcast, it's late afternoon,
she looks **** tired, dishevelled, distraught.

The world is on a slide, going bad to worse,
believe me i could see premature grey in her coiffure,
she is fired from her job, I can guess,
it hits me hard to think she is inconsolable.
Then, we all are, who is secure these days!

Under a tree, with withered leaves, she sits,
climatic change, obviously is playing havoc with it,
the evening sun, just slanted westwards,
seems unusually cruel to this girl,
no cover of thick foliage, moreover.

I see children playing around Isabel,
even they are soon losing interest,
if mirthful they are, make some noise and
run around, she would have smiled,
I would have felt far better than this!

Well, I don't know Isabel, may be her name is different,
on evenings I used to watch her from afar,
with curious eyes, I admired her incomparable elan,
hoping to make friends with her,
such a gentle soul she looked.

We'd become friends, by and by, I had hope,
I saw her smile and loved her sunny side,
but before I could meet and ask her out,
it happened, even without a notice,
I am fired from my job, today.
They said the downturn affected us bad, it showed,
What can you possibly say,
other than, just accepting the pink slip

A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted  by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.