Deep in the alcove
Of my being
I find an image
Within an image
Rediscovering myself
A facsimile
Adding only strength

Small
And still sure
That is my endeavor

I look within
For amity and strength
For conversations
With only me
As an audience
I find myself and
Smile…

I am the Matryoshka
Wooden beauty in the outside
Subtlety and charm
Moisten my core
On the inside.

Even in the scabbard
The sword does not blunt
She sends a warn
When drawn out

Curve still sharp
Promises to hurt
An unruly beholder
She shall bleed you
Should you doubt her skills at all

Her forte does not wean
Even if your memory
Fails to recognize it
Even her silence is fierce
Do not encourage her to ring
She may just prove
All your fears!

That's a poet
Who sees the verve
Even in the pained nerve
Who sews with words
Re-igniting the sparks of love
Who can embalm pain
Without the motives of gain

That's a poet
Who can love the storm
For he can see
The sunshine beyond
He loves the drought too
That makes him want
Some showers of respite
He loves the bees and bugs
For they imprint the floral canvass
Of his imaginations!

That's a poet
Who embarks the journey
Of truth...of life...so real and yet unreal
He weaves a carpet
Between the real and virtual
He strengthens the genesis
For his words render a vision!
Immortal deeds
On the altar of timeless worship
By the mortal beings!

And how did I slip,
Into the ecstasy of your arms;
Enveloping security,
All around me…

And how did it hypnotize me,
Into the pools of your eyes;
Piercing beyond the limits,
Of my black pupil…

And how did I learn,
A new pink shade of lips;
Feeling over mine,
Could be softer than feather…

And how did I feel,
The texture of your stubble;
Burning over my bare skin,
Could be a talisman,
Of my fantasy’s frontiers…

And how could my fingers,
Do all the talking;
Unleashing the strength,
That mesmerized me,
In an awe;
Resounded by gasping,
Pleasure…

And how did I loose,
All my way,
In the loops of sweet talk;
Until eyes took refuge,
Of sweet dreams;
I pray they shall awake true,
And be alive,
Until eternity at last!

I know someone who finds solace in ballet shoes
                A boy who strums his secrets to guitar strings
Someone that spends his waking moments with glazed red eyes
             As if facing this world cold turkey
                       Isn’t even an option.

For boys whose fingertips shake
                Like the burning end of a cigarette
And girls whose smiles resemble
Car crashes waiting to happen
A cacophony of shattered noises
             And those of us who feel guilty for the
                     mere act
                           Inhaling air
                        And exhaling poison
So we spend lifetimes holding our breaths

   Until we burn our lungs out trying
            To warm our hearts
            With something other than the fire
           That burns out in a smoky haze

Until our eyes become rivers,
flowing oceans
That cry out a thousand melted glaciers

Our tongues speak ruined languages
We read everything backwards
Curse in Latin
Make oaths in Russian
So whatever we say sounds beautiful.

So that our hands wont have to learn permanence,
affection
consolation.

Because we both know the sound of gunfire
Except I, didn’t grow up in a war zone
It was a different kind from yours
Our bullets were words
Sounds of breaking glass
And the shards of which made it into my cheerios the next day
Chewed them anyway to spite
The sound that
Breaking makes

You,
you know the sound of falling bodies too readily
  you can mimic them in your footsteps
The smell of rotting corpses
What kind of scars shrapnel really leaves

What the color of blood really looks like
I see that shade of red every time you speak
  The way you keep it hidden in those paintings
In the drawer that I sneak into when you sleep
Know too well what evil looks like

I can find a place for all the words buried in my chest
inside your bullet wounds easily

If I were not a coward

Staring into the dark irises of men in uniforms dirtier than their conscience,
Find it easier to look into a barrel of a gun
Only one of them holds salvation
  
No, you are not afraid of guns
Nor the sound that breaking makes


But I still remove the safety pin
Just in case

He didn’t know what time it was,
Except that it was early,
And he wouldn’t need to be up for hours.

So he turned his head toward the
Only window in the room,
Which was so white that it appeared
To be encasing ten feet of snow.
It was April, though,
He remembered through the neon glow,
And the room was 17 floors up.
The old hotel was silent,
Bathed in this new sunrise, so
Cold and refreshingly bright;
This new day- this white, ****** light.

And then there was the girl-
Sleeping beside him like a kitten
In a sea of pale linens and downs,
An arm over her forehead,
Like a dozing damsel in distress.
She’s fragile, he thought,
Fragile and rare as a glass unicorn,
The heart-wrenching, Tennessee Williams type-
No broken horn, but something
Indistinguishable setting her apart;
Like the pure sunlight, here lies
A beauty so blinding, yet hidden from plain sight.

He didn’t know what time it was,
Except that it was early,
And he wouldn’t need to be up for hours.
Her arm twitched.
The room was boomingly silent.
The infant light made a golden bar across the bed.
The air was crisp.
His breath was warm.
He felt chilled.
His skin felt raw.
His eyes felt raw.
His heart felt raw.
Her skin looked soft.
He wondered if her heart was soft.
He swallowed quietly.
He felt his head pound against the quiet.
Her arm twitched again.
A long-forgotten childhood scar shimmered,
And he decided that this particular mark
Is innocent, but…
He would move a mountain and
Protect her always; keep an eye on her,
In all her wild wonder,
Rather that give her another.

And then there’s the slight voice:
"Beautiful as if made of marble,
Untouchable as if made of glass,
If you’ve ever wondered how an angel sleeps,
Now you know at last."

And while he slipped back under the covers,
He slipped helplessly into a love from which he'd never quite recover.