tis the golden hour
atop this apsidal hall of sentience
seventy-two thousand bilva leaves
shimmer...
as four cosmic forces
simper
in mute surrender
to an eye-popping waltz
choreographed by
the crescent bearing jewel
who’s white as jasmine


© 2019

All is over,
when silence falls upon you
when silence deafens you
and no voice can be reached
when the crashing of waves settles
and the raging storm in your mind bids you
farewell
when your heart becomes heavy
you'll realize your mistake
that the words you chose were venomous
and the situation wasn't all bad
yet you allowed your emotions to possess your tongue
and carve it into a double-edged sword
guard thy tongue with discretion
for it can end everything

at the center of the milky way
rests
the reclining lord of sri ranga
adorning a diadem
accentuated with a peacock feather

complexioned like
the dark rain bearing clouds
his golden navel
the true seat of
this galaxy’s black hole

a waft of
warm sandalwood
floats all through space
as i revel in the lilting tunes of
die zauberflote


© 2019

In this life, there is always dualities,
no simplicities,
nothing ever comes for free,
but we should be grateful for every breeze.

I cry blood tears for what the world has become,
our worries are not here,
but the higher cosmic powers,
Ephesians 6,

I'm a lover of all things,
but I always remember to embrace the shadow.

A ring of futility

The patience game is not for the faint heart

Watching them tear your confidence apart,

Pulling the flesh from your backbone

Creaks give way to breaking

Shattering of nerves

Plucking away the feathers of hope

Bare naked and goosepimpled

The carvery lays waiting

An unceremonious carving

Beligerant twisted barbs of lies

They think they have power

They think the can destroy me

I almost thought they could too,

But as they say reputation is king

And mine speaks flesh to my bones

I pick the scales off one by one

Their pious deception no match

for my holy inception

A twisted fork tongue lays deep in its own rotted flesh

How the snakehole swallows it's own creator

Writhing in contorted panic as it's own truth flashes in its eyes

I may well be torn down every shred of pride

Only to rise a new and free from their serpentry

While they taste the bitter poison in their own sad tales

They never had real faith

And mine was never afraid of being tested

They forgot the sage old saying

Death trampling on death

Arise Tabitha and sin is no more

And nor is the serpent whom devours its self.