The wind stirs my black curtain.
I hear the sound of branches,
The wind sweeps the dry grass on the fields,
Like waves on the sea.
Cold hearts,
Like the black curtain.
If you go to heaven without me,
Or even to hell,
My heart will fall asleep.
Love is as dark
As a moonless night
In an impenetrable forest.
Bats must long for such nights.
The black curtain rustles—
The night is not so long for me.
I am like a fallen angel
Whose paradise is taken away,
Yet Cupid strikes me
With an arrow of love.
The black curtain rustles,
For me, the nights aren’t so long.

The salvages have been cut away
And all has begun to fray
The fabric-cutter now holds sway
In the fabric of so many lives

It started with one tiny thread
With what somebody wrote
And then somebody read
The fear then grew and spread

Like some great moth-ridden cape
With in which massive holes gape
Your minds have now been *****
As many fear the ultimate date

When the fabric-cutter begins
To trim, first foes, but in the end
The woeful trim of even friends
When all is cut away at bitter end

Hence, not even he will have the win
Nor protective garment.

I've always suspected I'm an alien.
Lately I figured out,
that I'm an earthling
lost in space.

The boulder river almost called
the figure leaning on the bridge.

The height wasn't much
but one touch would crush.

He saw a doll with its blood
floating away with the current.

Thin line, he muttered under his breath,
I never realised
it was this thin.

He snatched himself away from the moment
and headed towards the rest house
thinking
I would give it a try,
some time.

She awkward steps back kitchen-side
This pan-lapsed food-fond alchemist
To where her latent joys reside
In flavour-labours sanctified
    Through boils, in bakes, on roasting
Her last cooked dinner, holiday
Before her dear one took their leave
Too painful kitchen-time replay
So, pots and mixers stored away
    Lost joy of home-heart toasting

Now humming with slight body quake
Full fear of fast descent in tears
Yet realising the heady ache
Was no impending weep-long lake
    But simple mess frustration
In truth the galley, clean enough
But who put all her tools away?
No soldier knife line, shining tough
No pin for shortcrust, brush for puff
    No decorating station

Crisp tuts for every tool misplaced
With tiny sighing shoulder arch
Utensils that could not be traced
Like grieving that could not be faced
    Rough substitute located
While losing whisk, sieve, spoon, and knife
With larger pieces from her past
In working through small kitchen strife
She found her hiding zest for life
    In crusty pastry braided
    Joy-cooking reinstated

I can write sad poetry
It’s all too easy
My pen can weep,
The ink will bleed,
Tears of papery grief.

My wound can ever bleed,
A heart that seeps,
A river of unease,
Tears without cease.

Why this is,
I do not know,
All the while my smile never fades,
Sunshine or rainy day,
Dreary winter or summer haze.

I’d like to sit in a paper boat,
Float downstream.
Let the river lead.
Let my poetry find relief,
All my characters finally in reprieve.

Let it be,
All within at ease,
The lion no longer need pace.
Today, tomorrow and yesterday,
Exist only within me
And tonight, the silence is all I need.

Time is fast, faster when You utilise it and even fastest when You realise it.
                                                      M.S. Anjaan

Your scarred face
Written on it, the name of disgrace
I shed pink tears
Because the ink from your touch smeared
The blank paper I used to be
Now I can see
Inside your eyes lies a storm
Inside your eyes cries behold
Me, another dream