I guess I
will always be
writing about you
even though you
might not see
these words.

With the burden of a million curses,

she scuffs in an unflagging way,

fondling zillions as it passes,

the aroma of hope it does spray.

What if time complies with us?

What if she ceases to budge ?

What if she gives in to our pleadings?

What if she doesn’t move even if we nudge?

With time sufferings would linger,

tears ceaselessly would wet your face,

that ” time almost heals everything”

would not descend to embrace.

Your wounds wouldn’t metamorphose to scars,

contusions would continue to reek,

pain would mangle you in its grip,

recovery, from none you can seek.

Despair would clad you eternally,

you will find no light at the tunnel’s end,

darkness would compel you to succumb,

no ray of hope would glisten to amend.

The woes of ailing men wouldn’t stop,

they would dangle on their death beds,

time wouldn’t pass rewarding salvation,

making you realise how tarrying time dreads.

Sorrow would prevail for good,

worries would always conjure up,

a wait would end no more,

an ocean would never come of a drop.

Joy wouldn’t replace despondency,

neither well being, malaise,

spring wouldn’t follow winter,

neither clarity , haze.

The crux of life is transience,

perpetuity we can’t endure,

let time slither as she does,

for each agony she’ll leave a cure.

Achelois is the moon.
"She who washes away pain," they say.
So tell the moon your secrets
tell the moon your woes
Achelous will listen.
And once you stop talking,
she shines her light in a wink.
Achelois is the moon.
Achelois is a friend.

It is odd to think we are free,
And to idealize liberty, and to praise expression.
But how at large can we truly be,
If within, we can only draw upon unruly self-repression?

If in public, we dare not speak our minds?
If our love, we dare not confess?
If to wrongs, we turn blind?
If from singing our hearts, we digress?

We claim to be free,
The thought alone, within us, sets a torch alight,
But the truth for truth we must see,
When given a pen, hardly one of us would write.

I was lost in loneliness
And no one seemed to care
Yearning to be heard
At night I’d whisper to the air

Then one night I spoke to paper
And it hung on every word
I cried my sorrows in my mind
And somehow the paper heard

It found a way to translate
Found language in my tears
It silenced my confusion
And gave voice to my fears

We had lovely conversations
Between paper and me
Sometimes we’d talk of fantasy
Sometimes of reality

The poems became my letters
To help them understand
The characters my family
When life didn’t go as planned

The stories became my home
That I could go to anywhere
The paper became my dearest friend
The words became my air

Now not a day goes by
That my dearest friend and I
Don’t pass time rhyming truths
And storytelling lies

And when I find I’m lost again
And start to feel alone
My dearest friend is always there
To usher me back home