The source of wisdom
who knows where it lies
far from humankind,
yet right before our eyes
Centuries of deceit made us forget our own memories.
Those who seek shall find lies.
All placed on purpose to blur their mind.
Most claim to know all.
Why they think so is quite bizarre.
A few claim they know nothing, yet they know more than all.
A wise man always said, yet he never was found.
The source of wisdom
shall it ever be found?
Open soul, for wisdom.
It's leaking everywhere,
no one is astonished.
All are walking past, then wisdom collapsed.
Some days I wake up with my neck slick;
beads of sweat soak my pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.
And perhaps I should be.
I'm starving, you know,
for the kind of knowledge which appears forbidden
Or shrouded, hidden.
Written in the redwoods
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.
If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would erupt?
The back of my neck now cools and itches in the chill breeze
soaring in from the Sound.
Itches for answers I'll never grasp
I'm yearning to greet the soil and beetles once my clock stops
but frozen, here, instead, with cement feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
in the end I'm greeted alone, sticky, swatting at vapors.
Do not tear me apart I may not survive
My heart is in agony my soul is in pain
I want to take your image ,don't deprive
Allow me to carry along everlasting chain
What is predestined can not be changed
We have to follow the verdict but till last
All comes as blue moon, nothing arranged
I am like boat without rudder and mast
Life a vast ocean in which one has to swim
With very many crocodiles and with sharks
Journey is in blind alley with turns to trim
With many hazards, with dangerous marks
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
I'm walking down the street
with my eyes staring
at the rough road.
Unable to lift my head.
Unable to ease my pain.
I wonder about a lot of things.
Worsening the claws of sorrow
that continues to envelop me.
A ray of hope drew near me,
with a voice
so sweet and gentle.
"Cheer up, little one."
My ray of hope said.
Little by little,
I felt a rush of emotion
conquering those painful claws.
With a smile,
I continued to walk down
the path I'm taking.
"Yes," I smiled.
"Life is too precious,
for me to waste it."
In a world populated by billions
I am but a face among others
Another child among thousands
One more soul through eternity
My voice is a silent whisper
In the stream of life's orchestra
Along with the rest who slowly perish
So will my name be forgotten
But as the boat reaches its shore
I think of strings, a silent prayer
A single deed changes another life
And a stranger's story is rewritten
Theoretically we should be perfect
And my life shouldn't be this wrecked
Theoretically I should know who I am
But how can I when my life's a scam?
Theoretically life should be easy and death hard
But theoretically I shouldn't be scarred
However the fact is I am
And my life is a scam
And my life is wrecked
And we're not perfect
Life is hard and death easy
And sometimes nobody cares or see's me
It's maybe because everything I say, I say poetically
But at least I don't live my life thinking theoretically
Because my life maybe be wrecked, a scam, hard and scarred
But at least I'll be for filled once I'm layed to rest in the graveyard
A precious piano stands silent and sovereign
in a room of obscure ambience that hangs from Heaven.
Gathered is a crowd familiar by name and face,
and name and face alone.
A prophet stands a step beneath the piano.
His emaciated ideals are better explained in writing.
The crowd uses his mispronounced prophecies as the material
for their mockeries and their jokes.
A glass ceiling makes them naked to ethereal bodies
that do not care to pay attention.
And if such bodies could speak, they would speak
nothing towards them.
Each soul in the room is selling some
stopgap prescription drug that will last a lifetime.
The preacher is selling God, with all His effete side effects;
the fascist sells purpose with some acrid aftertaste;
and the madman sits in the corner with a thousand low-cost answers,
none of which you can fact check.
“You will see!” the prophet exclaims.
His voice is weak in its strength.
“You will see the rubble of Man’s Creation,
and the fractured bones of God.”
Lucifer enters with a proud gait
and collects the silent.