Skeletons rage when there’s no rain
'cause their bones have to suffer another day
of shameful decay.
All worms, insects, and maggots
have left with the flesh
and flowers like to wind themselves
around boney necks.
Do you think he knew how much time he had left?
He has eternity
beneath the dirt.
He has serenity
when interred.
But he lays atop fallen leaves
at the edge of a clearing that views the sky.
Will the stars cry for him?
I won’t tell if they lie.
Will the Heavens open up their gates?
To him I think they’d rather hate.
Will the aching bones get washed away
to somewhere only demons play?
I think he’s wary of the angels
and not yet known to those fallen,
except the leaves,
they know him well.
They are his bed and blanket.
His comfort and his hatred.
Bones rattle when the winds bellow.
Lord, it is his time to go.
Please Lord, just let him go.

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
Rallying in hordes of horses,
Assassins from malsI pillaged us,
Maraud they did our temples.

Merely by converting out from Đhärm,
And reading the Satanic Verses,
Never you do forget your roots,
Demolish the original temple they did,
India is Bhāräŧ and will always be,
Right now the Hïnđū people celebrate.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤

Out there is a wide universe,
a dangerous universe
filled with quiet monsters,
a louder dissonance.

Wise men have said
that saying your secrets out loud
will set you free,
and break the cage that
houses your confined bird.

I disagree.

There are times
where the world is more dangerous
when it knows the truth,
and though yes, saying the truth out loud
may seem safer for me to stop the darkness
from consuming who I am.

But drowning inside is better,
than setting the world on fire.