It is a sad existence, that of a poet
with flowery phrases and disguised meanings
Tossing out happy faces like quarters
splashing in a wishing well with no bottom

Painting heartstrings an amber shade of gold
lingering silver linings losing their crease
in frayed bottomed hip huggers
that are long out of style

Swishing fragrant melodies on starch white paper
collecting lines in neat rows and margin’d desires
lips fluttering and eyelashes batting
well below the leagues average

Whispering notions of sheer delight,
tantalizing rapid pulses pushing blood
through narrow corridors finding
locked garden entrances in chained Jasmine

Dreaming dreams that only a dreamer could dream
all the while knowing that when they awaken
pen in hand, ink at the ready
these dreams shall never come true

It is a sad existence, that of a poet…who believes their dreams

At the potter's village we met,
the dawn was only breaking, ominous,
young we were, how exciting a time it was,
shadows never made us frightened,
I made her, the way what she thinks she is,
in turn she made me the way I wanted myself,
there were no original or model, we both were
creations of each other, isn't that unique!
when we left each other, with our hearts  still smiling,
no one could, believe our words
they searched for the mark of tears.on our cheeks,
Standing on the river bank, we embraced the last time,
then, on our ways we went,
we didn't regret a bit, in a boat
called love we further sailed.

Under my bed, hid
a tendered angel,
who had
broken wings,
and she was,
terrified to move
for all she knew
was to
fly.

She sat,
knees wrapped,
to her
chest, crystal tears,
dropping to
her pastel pink
woven
and embroidery
dress.

She looked,
glancing at me
saying she
swam,
in the pools
of her own
tears,
and that she
lost strength.

Her endeavours to
swim further,
were stinted,
she was forced
to be,
parsimonious
and so,
she closed her eyes
letting go.

When she woke,
she found herself,
in darkness, only
the moon lit,
her darkened
space,
phrenic activity
haunting her
mind.

As delicately as,
my body
allowed,
I lay flat down,
so not to scare, her
reaching out,
I collect broken glass,
shattered wings,
bleeding from her.

(The angel was called Rebelle Fleur, she allowed me to ever so carefully, take her from under the bed, and to hold her, with grace and elegance, she lifted her tiny frame, and stood, without her wings, and ever so softly whispered her name, asking me to help fix her wings, so she could once again fly and be free)

© Sia Jane

The strains of flute, touched his inner being,
                   lifted him up, held aloft like a feather,
the music in gentle waves,  
                     took him through many lives he lived before
loosing all his mooring on here and now
                    he moved to the pinnacle, an unattached effulgent particle,
a sea of colors that kept changing, took him in,
                    he was liberated, from all bindings.
felt a joy exquisite, on being one with the music of the cosmic waves.

Stares at him a blank page
Stares at him a blind rage
Stares at him a maddening pause
Stares at him an indeterminable cause

It seems so unfair
Before him is only laid bare
A taunting silence
Tearing into his patience
Dragging him down to bottom
Raising him up the cliff
Tossing him in the storm
Showing him no relief!

And it’s precisely then
Over the shattering pain
Emerges a newly born light...

He feels a palpable might.

He rejoices in its voice.

Past the night’s turbulence
Would be revealed at the dawn
The hidden shapes in the silence
The picture fully drawn!

A picture sans all flaws
For you drawn on the canvas
Making redundant a cause
For effects that far surpass!

He stood at the
height of most men's
shoulders.
But grew into the
size of Goliath while
full of wheat barley and ****.

His pale blue eyes
sat peacefully in the center of the
angry blood shot pool
that had once been
as white as the
hair on his head.

He was handy with his
hands but his hands
usually held a bottle.
He drank only at certain
bars,only around those
who had come to
know his rage.

He wasn't allowed home
when ever he had become
one with the ranting
and raving lunatic
who lived deep down
in his soul.

His voice was raspy
from too many cigarettes
and too much
drunken screaming.

He had pains that called
for pills and names he
swore he would ****.

And he drank every time
like it was it his first time
or maybe the last.
Always enough to
awake that
giant within.