"dowry" poems
Detain my mind,
the rind my brain.
Again, again, and again.
To what do I owe,
this mindless dowry.
What harvest I've sown,
misery... in company.
I've the mind of a poet,
and the mouth of a sailor,
which completely negates
my valor.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 9:45 PM UTC
Do you enjoy sunlight?
or do you prefer the moon bright?
There is a breeze that lifts you up at sunset
There is a cool in the night when your breath rests
This is when I pick you up and take your breath away
There is a groovy vibration when our bodies sway
Holding each other's hands and cuddling
or do you prefer the space and distance?
That will have you dissect and appreciate what you have for instance
Do you look at the time, pushing away the minutes?
Or do you ponder on the breathtaking moments?
Moments that we've had, memories in your diary
or do you wish for more and think that this is only the beginning?
Are you saving up and collecting for the dowry
Establishing a bond that will live on in the pages
of you diary.
Something vintage to be remembered eternally
Do you leave your door open for the love of me?
Or did you time me to come to you before your feelings flee?
do you like romantic candle-lit dinners?
Or do you prefer junk food on my bed and a movie?
Do you enjoy ****** funky music?
Or do you enjoy blue and slow jams?
Do you like to dance?
Or do you prefer trigonometry in bed?
Do you like ice cream or yoghurt?
Was it sweet and smooth then cold when you got hurt?
Will you ever trust a guy again?
Or will you shut out every guy who tries to come in?
I bring you an offer, you make a decision
I intend to take you away for a ride
I am prepared to instill in you a lady's pride
I am willing to go swimming in waters blue
I am devoted to say meaningful words that are true
I wish to make you smile and glow
I wish to take you to theatre shows
Our relationship will be the stage
Love will be the play
The audience, our exes and all those who say nay
We can be the producers and the actors
Inspiring the man above to shine his light upon us
Convincing the cosmos to make our time a big bang
... and finally our composure igniting with the white and giving your eyes sight
Now with wide and broad view, do you like the candles in this light?
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
All Blames goes back to an old time religion
Mother without tears, no end
A father without fears, no courage
Poverty is a sin
That can led a nation into abomination
Breeding cattle can solve a herdsman problem
However, how can one sell his daughters for dowry?
Does it worth it to win the lottery,
Then lose it all the next day
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
When I was a little boy, say when I was six, my dad calls to me and he says: Come, boy – let’s sit in our courtyard; let’s sit below the stars and I’ll tell you a story. It’s been told long in our village, and passed on from wise fathers to growing sons.
Long ago, goes the story
Farmer Somu wanted
his daughter Meena to marry
the Strongest in the world
and so he set out on a journey
with his daughter
to seek the World’s Strongest One
And what were they going to do, little boy? says my father to me. They are going to look for the Strongest One, I say; and my father says: Ah, you clever son of a clever man.
And when they walked
past the rice fields
they saw farmers
wiping their brows
and they said:
‘My, how strong the sun shines!’
‘Aha,’ said Somu, ‘I think
I’ve found the Strongest One.
Come, Meena,’ he said,
‘let’s talk to the Sun.’
*And what do you think, my little boy, what do you think Somu asked the Sun?
And I say to my father: Oh Sun, Will you marry my daughter? And my father says, excitedly: Exactly! Exactly! Oh , you brilliant son of a brilliant man.*
‘Oh Sun,
will you marry
my daughter
for she is the Prettiest
and you are the Strongest?’
‘But,’ said the Sun,
‘the cloud is stronger than I
for have you not noticed
how often the cloud
blocks me out
and I can’t do a thing
until he decides to move?’
*And what do you think, my little boy, what do you think Somu replied to the Sun?
Oh, you weakling Sun – I’m not even talking to you! comes my quick reply. And my father says: Oh how right you are – you clever son of a clever man!*
‘Weakling Sun
stand out of my way
and Oh you most powerful cloud –
will you marry my daughter
for she is Prettiest
and you the Strongest?’
And the Cloud replied:
‘But ah, I am not the Strongest
for the wind just blows me away!’
And what do you think, my clever boy, what do you think Somu did next? And I answer my dad: Well, dad - Farmer Somu drags his daughter Meena to the Wind. And my father says: Oh how right you are – you brilliant son of a brilliant man!
‘O Wind
you should marry
Meena who is Prettiest
in the world
as you are the Strongest.’
But the Wind replied:
‘Ah, you don’t know how Strong
the mountain is
for he blocks my way
and he breaks me down.’
*And what do you think, my little boy, what do you think was Somu’s reply to the Wind?
Oh, you useless Wind – I’m ashamed I even considered you! I reply. And my father says: Oh how right you are – you clever son of a clever man!*
‘Oh, you useless Wind
– I’m ashamed
I even considered you!’
said Farmer Somu
and he dragged his daughter along
to meet the mountain
and he said to the mountain:
‘Most Honored Mountain
I have heard of your strength
and so I have brought you Meena
who is the Prettiest.’
But the Mounatin replied:
‘Oh Sir, I am not deserving
of such a rare beauty
for the rat gnaws holes in my sides
and so is Stronger than I.’
And what do you think, dear son, says my father to me – what do you think Somu does next? And I reply quite impatiently: Somu takes his daughter to the rat? Exactly! Exactly! shouts my dad. Exactly, you brainy son of a brainy man!
And the Rat told Somu:
‘Alas, Sir
though your daughter
is most desirable
I cannot marry her
for the hyena is
far stronger than me
for he has eaten many of my family!’
And so they walk to the hyena, says my father to me. And what do you think Somu tells the hyena? And I reply: Oh hyena – marry my daughter for she is Prettiest and you are Strongest! And my father says: Oh you are right, boy! You are right – Oh you brilliant son of a brilliant man!
‘Sir Hyena
Most Revered Sir Hyena
do marry Meena
for she is Prettiest
and you the Strongest!’
And Sir hyena replied:
‘Ok. I ask for no dowry
just leave her with me
with no ceremony.’
And what do you think , asks my father, Somu did? And I reply: He left Meena with the hyena. And my father shouts excitedly: Oh, how right you are! How right you are! You clever child of a clever man.
And no sooner had Somu left
the hyena took Meena
to his cave
and he ate her all
skin and bone…
Ah what a tragic end;
what a horrid end…
*And dear son, says my father to me, what is the moral of this story? Many, I say. But two are: Use your wits and stay alive. Never allow yourself to be dragged around. And my father jumps up and he is excited: Oh how right! How right! You brilliant son of a brilliant father!
And he turns to my mother who has joined us at the courtyard and he says:
See how clever our son is – he knows all the answers! Such a brilliant son of a brilliant father!
And my mother’s retort is swift: It’s not that he’s brilliant or you either. You’ve told him this story a hundred times, you silly man! And it’s always the same words! And I would have kicked my father if I were Meena!*
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 11:42 PM UTC
I'm in peril as soon as I'm in my mother's womb
Unsure of whether I'll ever see the doctor's room
And even if this world I'm allowed to see
It's like stepping into a hive full of bees
My brother gets new clothes while a get a broom
When the guest come, I'm locked up in the room
Being denied education because they feel it's of no use
It's my own blood who does this; who should I accuse?
I'm beaten up by my own father
"You won't get food if you don't work harder!"
I'm married off and sent away
I'm to be my in - law's slave till my hair turns grey
Dowry is another thing they torture me for
I weep at night while my husband snores
I try for jobs though I'm always denied
"You have talent but the job is full" The manager lied
Beaten black and blue by my drunk husband
I have no clue what I did to offend
The feeble rays of sunshine during monsoon describes my life
I don't think it will be long before I pick up the kitchen knife
For I will finally attain peace resting in my grave
It's better to be dead than to be the world's slave
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
On slopes, in crest
Is her dowry found, friend of mud and clay
Attain approval
Pertain to promise
Submit to doable demise
Alight my heart!
Be true to self
Keep sword and shield in hand
Put death to fear!
Give life to love
As love be something fair.
-
How soon? How soon?
The time draws near
When glisten creeps into eye
Take heart stand firm
And cherish true
The love of one so fair
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 5:45 PM UTC
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Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC
THE KNIGHT IN THE PANTHER’S SKIN
***** Rustaveli (c. 1160-1250), often called simply Rustaveli, was a Georgian poet who is generally considered to be the preeminent poet of the Georgian Golden Age. “The Knight in the Panther's Skin” or “The Man in the Panther’s Skin” is considered to be Georgia’s national epic poem and until the 20th century it was part of every Georgian bride’s dowry. It is believed that Rustaveli served Queen Tamar as a treasurer or finance minister and that he may have traveled widely and been involved in military campaigns. Little else is known about his life except through folk tradition and legend.
The Knight in the Panther's Skin
by ***** Rustaveli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
excerpts from the PROLOGUE
I sing of the lion whose image adorns the lances, shields and swords
of our Queen of Queens: Tamar, the ruby-throated and ebon-haired.
How dare I not sing Her Excellency’s manifold praises
when those who attend her must bring her the sweets she craves?
My tears flow profusely like blood as I extol our Queen Tamar,
whose praises I sing in these not ill-chosen words.
For ink I have employed jet-black lakes and for a pen, a flexible reed.
Whoever hears will have his heart pierced by the sharpest spears!
She bade me laud her in stately, sweet-sounding verses,
to praise her eyebrows, her hair, her lips and her teeth:
those rubies and crystals arrayed in bright, even ranks!
A leaden anvil can shatter even the strongest stone.
Kindle my mind and tongue! Fill me with skill and eloquence!
Aid my understanding for this composition!
Thus Tariel will be tenderly remembered,
one of three star-like heroes who always remained faithful.
Come, let us mourn Tariel with undrying tears
because we are men born under similar stars.
I, Rustaveli, whose heart has been pierced through by many sorrows,
have threaded this tale like a necklace of pearls.
Keywords/Tags: ***** Rustaveli, Georgia, Georgian, epic, knight, panther, skin, queen, Tamar, praise, praises, Tariel, Avtandil, Nestan-Darejan
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 1:38 AM UTC
i knew you had a hard farm, where the livestock was stoic and the hills less harmless.
you had wolves that would breathe down your neck. and weeping willows made of funerals
and *** U knew you had an old world view of birthmarks, where life is stampede and riddle
and lost art...
i knew you had guns, and an April of dead suns... a humid dementia of lecherous guile and innocence.
a distinct remain. [ a loose cherub in the Wednesday...]
a bowl of fruit and tyrants
catching spark.
i knew you meant no harm that a legion of crossed charms could reason to decimate my reckless.
you had rules that had deeds, done in the name of nameless. a thing, pillows dread.
the soul of your soul is the spot spotless; a dowry of feathers and blood
and yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
Hail in peace wherever you abode now, dear Nadine Gordimer
You white daughter of Africa, the pen-mistress of July’s people,
You are the lover of July, your holy months of literature
That similarly gave a ****** grave marriage to Maziz Kunene
The African saint of orature; And Okot P’ Bitek, the lion of Gulu,
July have wedded you to the sombre grave in the Jo’burg,
As its apparatchik, the menacing jaws of death feel humdinger!
O! Dear little daughter, cursed are the jaws of death
They have kept on wooing and wooing you relentlessly
They have yearned for your betrothal with mad jealous,
For your iconic position in white African literature,
In which you stand with soldierly embrace a Nobelite,
They have now taken you to their inner chamber nuptials in death,
Before anything; let them now pay dowry to your bothers;
J M Coetzee, Alex La Guma and Dennis Brutus,
For there’s is a competent herds boy, a black shepherd;
Ezekia Mphalele, his living soul will keep the cows
Off down Corner B of the troubled African Image.
Say hello for those you are with in the current realm,
Say hello to foremen and fore daughters of Africa
Those that chose to visit the realm of ancestor precociously;
Say hello to them; Angelo Maya and Doris Lessing,
Let their caged birds and blooming grass sing uproariously,
Marriama Ba and Margaret Ogola, African girls,
They had a long letter and the source of the river from black dialectics,
O! Dear old baby Nadine Gordimer, stand firm in face to face with nothing
Other than the present time you’re in; the Africa’s realm of living dead
To sing the ballads of anti-apartheid both in heaven and on earth,
The only true testament of your footprints on the global sands of times
That Nadine Gordimer, July’s white-African daughter is deadly alive!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
some kind of dinosaur
is how it can be
and at my age you come with a dowry
or two to be considered
any kind of useful
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
**** that **** This is poetry now. Can you say it isn’t real? Can you say my lowbrow barbaric mind doesn’t express itself? Can you tell me these words aren’t art? **** that. This outcry is whats comin next.
Them burnt cars and bullet scars,
***** boots and tittie bars,
forget to bathe, **** the shave,
my pillow case is made of pave-ment,
twenty years late on that first pay-ment.
I asked the question but got delay-ment,
on what the **** has this all meant?
My colours just distract, them smiles just an act-
you think I’m tokin and ******* and happy go-lucking,
***** im drowning in the bills I haven’t even seen yet,
throwin off the debts as the horse that rolls the best bet,
and don’t forget,
every second you lay down to lie them eyes and theorize,
youre just getten burglarized,
want a burger and fries?
Twenty years off your life- oh and the change too.
Twenty seven ninety-five,
thirteen plus the years I’ll spend,
locked up with nothing to tend,
no garden, no fruit, no love to loot,
no wide eyes to fill and no breeze to shoot,
just a chain gain filling my ***** with soot,
stabbing by the next poor guy,
jabbing by that suit and tie,
the key is not to fit it right- so that every turn reminds who you belong to.
And this is what I wanna do?
Hold up- I pay for that ****
Now I understand suicide you nihilistic gits,
taking hits while the rest picks up the bits and the red runs the slits but no one sees the slip.
Topsy turvy sliding down the grassy knoll,
the heads tumble but the dough will never roll.
No.
Its busy ******* me in, me and my ilk,
like me too much an *** to be thankful for robes of silk,
mommy’s milk, eleventh hours and the stockpiles of the dowry.
Soft as a baby,
never ****** on the sour but the sweet,
pink feet,
earned on thin green sheet and the red as the man is beat, beaten and burned,
turned spurned despite his age and whats learned.
What is learned?
If only I could tell you.
We’s on the same track , don’t ask me whats gon spell true.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
You could desperate hear me start weeping
Ruckus started to crying to crack tangerine
holds one still upright auburn
as an immortal's loneliness fogged or condemned
stays a Sahara burnt hot tambourine
a hangover led Arabian
a broken record
some shattered the bathroom bar.
I wonder for my brother's dowry
on beds too kempt to be called beds
and doorframes and lamps set never high enough to hit again,
to stand to kneel to lock to lash to hold to my brother's body
now felt to me like the female sold fragile to the greater cities with
a vote,
he clearly left his Argentina behind no matter
how she paled, ended struck.
No longer a child or sister to pass as
to take guests in alone
to stand our married couple's cries an unmuteable radio
can't go back to playrooms for imparallel dignities' sake
that made all the noise at night worth it to deal with
I, don't want to play the rook
if no horse of yours' beside.
Now once the scarcity of your voice,
if even morbid,
is to be greeted by me alone,
Adam and Eve we have unable to see,
just for the empty halls of your decision just for me to hit,
your turned leaf hidden agenda of relief,
I recognise my faiths of the old of your endless
mornings supposedly killed by snoring and your
vividness to my thoughts a foreign concept,
to note you resurrected out of mind and out of sight
the congruence picks me out and slaps me that
our cocoon and safe designed for you
was nothing short of a coma web in your eyes
to begin with instead.
...
I look out to my brother's dowry
to hold stubborn, fainted in my nook the head of my brother's body
to sit on his old air this house keeps like a sari gem
he will never long for
again.
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 10:10 AM UTC
I'm found wanting the lion's share
of life,
often reaching for the stars and
taking the moon as well.
Youth courses through my veins
like gemstones as
blind ambition promises the world to me,
served on a platter forged of wanderlust and
childlike curiosity,
as a dowry.
He pecks my cheek and speaks of
what's to come,
of our progeny-
every wish that's made on a falling star and
every innocent kiss between lovers.
These and more I'm to have-
nights spent under foreign skies,
sincere love notes that were never delivered,
and cherished songs who lost their lyrics but
are still hummed to little ones.
Because of him,
these are to be my gifts,
they are to be my children,
they are to be my legacy.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
He saw me in a coffee shop,
He liked what he saw in one go,
He found about me some more,
He started me to adore.
He told his mum about his feelings,
Asian women! With joy she started singing,
Two days later he came to see me,
He was smart,educated and handsome,
More, he did'nt want any dowry,
awesome,
My parents asked my view.
I had liked him on the spot
I said,"Yes, why not."
I admired him a lot,
The strings of our heart played the same tune,
Love would follow soon.
It did,
As soon as we were married,
Our love blossomed from a tiny bud into an beautiful flower.
With children a flower became a cluster.
But, the exotic fragrance is still there.
That is arranged marriage,
Each passing year our love strengthened with age.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
How does it feel?
To be a girl,
And to bleed,
Whenever we create
Something beautiful.
The dunce cap
Fills the void;
Where the crown should be.
Life grew
And fed, from these *******
Now ripped apart,
Pieces of shame.
Judas’s Cradle,
Destroyed our flesh.
Left us humiliated,
Like Lady Godiva
Hours of ******
From impalement
In spite of Eve
Whom bit the apple.
Hot irons,
Through vitality’s tunnel
To fallow the holy book,
The Malleus Maleficarum.
Confession induced stoning
Drowning, burning
Just to be whipped like animals
For social bonding.
The battles of power
With the entertainment of ****
Still two Hundred years of
Forced sterilization.
A pear of anguish,
For the miscarriages
A coffin,
For the son.
Who can be civil?
When survival
Even today,
Is about exploitation.
A dowry for obstetric fistula,
In Pakistan.
Under the union of god’s will,
Of course.
The ****** test
Out lives the Bison,
Only still being bred
For the hunt
Mutilation for those,
In Southern Sahara.
Huge abscesses,
To cover the curse.
The breaking wheel
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
Indian mother, small daughter, dowry troubles
kerosene poured drenching them
soaked rage, soaked rags
match struck, flames then death
wrenching
Two crumbs amongst these intransigent
slices of village culture
lost, burnt alive
never even at the table
A slice of life lost in a furnace
fueled by ignorance
American daughter, guilt filled
flees the home that loves her
drug fueled journey, on a treadmill of fear
for the running never ends
needle slices, a lonely son away from his mother
****** coursing the blood vessels
A slice of life, a slice of madness
English man sitting, ruminates on his slices
some with honey, some with not
pens a few lines
reality served up, tough to swallow
late in life, at least he’s realized
he’s the breadwinner and the bread maker
each slice cut, just the way he likes it
a sliced of life, a slice of love
each one chewed to perfection.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
the marble people stare not at you,
behind you, not at anyone in particular.
hunched, and clutching their glasses, thirst unquenched
there aren’t many of them now,
originally, there were thought to be thousands,
breathing quietly among us,
after the man has paid dowry for our daughter,
i turn to her and whisper,
“i think i’ve lost my spirit,
misplaced it, otherwise it flew from me,
escaped through my mouth while I was sleeping.
it slipped through the barely lit crack of parted lips
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
If not with those Pennies insure the Prank
And take Profession from his Engineer
Replace his Dowry; His Welcome be Frank
For billowing Youths on his Life-Blown Steer
How unique then, your Generation's greet
Something which the Elders may not hold place
To bribe their Thumbs; Tens-by-Ten-Places meet
And pass his Tickets for your jolly face
But what squabble must this Ritual provide
Save that Ceremony which marks your Friend
To whose Toyish Moments breathe your Confide
By his Years consult your own Testament.
This was your Cue. To come out of your Shell
Free from your Chains; To those Vices be well.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:21 AM UTC
Vim and vinegar.
Lushously loose and lulling a ligation of love.
A pretense of pompous pretentiousness priming a primal powderkeg.
Destructive dictation diseased the dowry daunting a demons debate.
Imagine an image irrigating an interesting irritation.
A common citizen creating a carcinogenic cacophony.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
My mother gave me a dowry
a brimming chest of treasures
a heart of rare and precious gems
she collected long ago
She filled it with her words, her thoughts
and things she knew I'd need
she piled high with hopes and dreams
priceless trinkets all for me
and topped it off with years of love
and a life of merry traditions
Then knowing that I'd need a map
by which to guide my life
she gave to me a legacy
my Bible, pure and right
and taught to me the art of prayer
a rare and genuine gift she shared
I am blessed to be a mother now
with a daughter of my own
and I can't wait to share with her
the love that I have known
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 10:03 PM UTC
it is dark, and in the center of the dark
is a white spotlight
and a box as if on the floor
of a stage
a hand enters the light
it is lifting the box and holding it up for display
but what is the box
is it pandora’s dowry
or
a collection of nails and screws from my father’s garage
does it drip with old motor oil
are rust flakes clinging to the hand
is it covered in mud and clinging roots
inside a tin robot, ripped playing cards, a length of string
and a box of matches
is it tin or wood is it light or heavy
and if it’s heavy will the thing inside blind me
is it the ark of the covenant
or an old wedding ring
or a penny, or a dead worm
the hand retreats with the box
pulls back into the dark
there is only the spotlight
and the light is gone
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
Seren-dip-me-pity, (she was self-accepting failure, bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty, (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the
moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,
wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate, (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it, everything became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).
The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
A human habit universal,
our measure of success by possessions to envy.
An infernal curse—commercial purveyors, trinkets
of gold and gem,
shining blinking, fabrics glistening;
the value of thing manipulated by
them insect kings.
By lion's fang and butterfly guise they rule,
a hubris deceiver upon their shoulder
obscuring their likeness to those
serfs upon whom they
cunningly demand servitude, otherwise
be starved, put out, forced to watch their
future falter—sons and daughters
failing in flight, their
wings clipped prior first spanning.
Locust clans spurred to fight over resources, who
sell and buy back nature's bounty once
formed anew into advertisement's subject.
Oceans emptied of fish, forests becoming myth,
uplands turned to wastelands,
abomination fog a spherical prison choking
earth's inhabitants—the marketer's dowry
paid for marriage to a precarious economy.
Royalty made rich at cost of labouring spine,
but worse—
our home and thereby our hope we consign.
By their futile attempt to survive,
the locust instinct to consume,
until all is gone we contrive,
the inevitable a meet with our doom—kings
with stained glass wings to follow soon.
So small are we amidst this vast existence;
the ambitions of men
barely bigger than an insect's significance.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Colors of love, I've never seen was painted on my heart by her,
lust sublimated,was the primer she preferred as the base to start,
music of love, she conducted, played in the background day and night
caressed me softly, made the colors dry, made it remain there ever
my wounded heart, demanded only love, nothing more from her
but she made it her piece of interest, for her million desires to adore
Her alchemy transformed it to gold, that never would lose it's sheen,
used all her riches excavated, from the valley of her placid mind,
to embellish and make it an invaluable dowry chest for her, ever
the skies cloudless,I was tranquil,her love made me feel elated,
on her, the wave-less lake I perfectly reflected, even at dark nights,
What else would make one dedicate, all mind commands,to her
and all flights of soul to higher echelons were inspired by her,
isn't that state, one knows as bliss, we are bound together by that .
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC