It was such
Fine stitching.
Beautiful scenes and
Vibrant colors and
Lovely textures and
Art.

Oh, art!

But then we just had to
Turn it around and see
Its tangled underbelly, its
Mistakes and messy messy messy
knots.
—YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO SEE THAT—
i’m sorry, please, i’m sorry.

Just-
just-
turn it over all we have to do is—
NO.

He walked into a calmer place,
Away from smoke around his face,
Into eyes of those with wings of grace,
As the dead look on from outer space.

As though it seemed that it was time,
Time to run and time to hide,
Inside his heart he knew he’d stay,
A living amongst not; a needle in hay.


Clouds of dust remind him of those,
Those people who’s sacrifice
they had not chose,
The moon is bright
and the night it glows,
Their crimson blood forever cold.
Deceived by men with hearts of coal,
Without a care for the lives they stole.

So there he lays to rest his brain,
Under corpses of comrades through the heavy rain,
Their faces were frozen in fear and pain,
Had they really all gave their souls in vain?
His wounds meant that this would be his grave,
Is this what it really means to be brave?

You searched the world and claimed my soul’s compass to colonize,
But I beg you—dismantle your camp; my strength is gone, can’t you realize?
The raspy melody of your chords,
Etched deeply in the fibers of my desires.
The kindness of your tongue, a trap in my core,
While your wisdom carves a space I can only admire.

There’s nowhere for me,
nowhere I can scream—
quietly, peacefully.
I can’t disturb,
the gentle, quiet Night.

These tears know, too—
They only know one home,
stuck deep inside.
They drown in the ocean,
wondering when they will
fly from my eyes.

The time comes.
I shake, I tremble.
My soul goes ragged—
with grief, with joy,
with guilt, with love,
with anger, with hope.
It’s wretchedly beautiful.

I raise my chin.
I shake, I tremble.
But only a crack
forms in the dam.
Only a stream
seeps into my lap.

I unhinge my jaw.
I shake, I tremble.
I try to *****
the full blue moon.
But not a sound disturbs,
the gentle, quiet Night.

I can’t hear myself.
But it's screaming.
It claws, it hungers,
it wants out.
But I’m not ready.

My heart has grown
too attached to the weight,
of this dead child
hiding inside me.

How can we blindspot traumas and tragedies; wars?
But when consumed with ourselves,
our daily ‘stories’ and chores
We take our eyes off the sacred,
on to the trivial, but today they’re on Yours.
We remember the lives lost in conflict;
Lives lost in efforts for peace.
We remember and our praise we do not restrict!
I tremble at the thought of 40+ wars
Currently raging around the world at large,
May peace and forgiveness conquer despite our many collective flaws.

the past caught up to me
and I

couldn't run away
from it this time.

a fork in the road,

decisions to be made
and I'm waiting, wondering

is life just one big show?

the outcome,
nobody knows,

we're all in it for the ride

trying our best
to keep our heads above water

and not get swept in the undertow.

it's all a game of chance,
and survival

the final destination,
a to-be-determined arrival.

a fork in the road,
decisions to be made,
and I'm waiting, wondering

how long it will take

to break this cycle?

I am the Light,

creation’s full breadth,
a spring breeze,
a blooming flower,
a selfless giver,
full of dreams
and a naive hope.

I am the Dark,

stagnation’s great champion,
a dying star,
a shambling corpse,
a perpetual sleeper,
full of dreams
and a ragged guilt.

i am these Two–
and I am one more.

oh please,
let me shine,
please let me–
it's cold,
i’m drowning,
please remember,
please don’t forget,
please don’t–
please–

oh please,
make it stop,
please stop it–
it’s bright,
i’m burning,
I need peace,
please be quiet,
please leave–
please–

please save me.

i am Tormented.

conflict is a woman
I can’t stay faithful to.
She makes a home in my eyes
wrapping herself in the lies that
lay crumpled on silk sheets.
Truth over harmony is the poem
she hums to me
yet
I still run to sing melodies
in the other beds I’ve made.

The fields of gold—
Looking grave
as past faces
caught up quickly,
smothering any presence
with smoldering reminders.

Alas, the echelons of memories
stood tall, like soldiers
steadfast, unwavering
to the imminent fall.

They remind him of his reflection,
belabored by reality’s labor.
Lines buried in sand,
etched onto his head—
burning coals of souls
that throttle his legs into motion.

He runs, and runs,
coerced to send the sun
his kinetic aspirations,
to deflect and reflect,
to dissolve prophecies beleaguered.

For it is he
who devises the Devil
of his own doing.