who’s most afraid of death?thou
                                  art of him
utterly afraid,i love of thee
(beloved)this

                 and truly i would be
near when his scythe takes crisply the whim
of thy smoothness.  and mark the fainting
murdered petals.  with caving stem.

But of all most would i be one of them

round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling….)
i who am but imperfect in my fear

Or with thy mind against my mind,to hear
nearing our hearts’ irrevocable play—
through the mysterious high futile day

an enormous stride
                      (and drawing thy mouth toward

my mouth,steer our lost bodies carefully downward.

Warmed sand from the hot day slides between her slider toes,
Her soft delicate ankles flex so tenderly with each step,
Smooth calves pull taut with petite strength, yet so frailly,
The falling sun dances on her hip and thigh seductively,

(A woman of complete ****** power, yet seemingly helpless,
Only as fragile as the tip of the golden dagger she bares,
Her greatest power is in your pleasures pleasingly fulfilled,
For once she has you clasped then her bidding can begin,)

Widening hips well versed in shifting her gently pooched belly,
A belly, so sensual, adored with melted elemental perfections,
Colorful beads to draws eyes to skin like petals of a newly bloomed rose,
A belly that when shaking releases all your heart's troubles and woes,

(When she loves, her warmth is ten times the sun on a cold night,
But if you were to oppose her, you are the prey to the panther's delight,
She will give you everything your heart could ever desire,
A kindness that burns inside her for her lover like a bellowed fire,)
  
Fluid, water like hands tell a story of enchantment as they slice through air,
Caressing a ***** so supple in form, a tear drop design of sexiness shown,
Gentle and smooth as her beasts gyrate with motion as her body moves like waves,
Her hands the constant agonist starting a seductive chain reaction through her body,

(A passionate heart awaiting a love so true, searching for her warrior poet,
She controls her world with her feminine wile but craves a life that is true,
A man that values and respects her intellect, equally as much as the view,
And look into her eyes to see the beautiful goddess that await him,)  

Long flowing black hair loved by the wind, teasing her curls as she spins,
The beauty of her face only second to Nefertiti, but her eyes that of a goddess,
Eyes reminiscent of a feline capturing the attention of the strongest man,
Emerald green, deep with passion like the ocean, and rival its beauty infinitely,

A dream that I see her in and long for her intimately......

Nobility divine fills gaps of transcendence,
    Soars to and from the throne heavenly,
Exalts morals near the king of ascendance,
    Patrolling the good, and sons of the seventy.

A duty forgotten, replaced with dependence,
    On prayers rarely heard, and logic of a herd -
Divinity is far in absence; man in attendance,
    The book is a third, and teachings are blurred.

Andeliviuan corruption supposedly erased:
    The creation rotten of Sariel, wanders gaily.
The holy and fallen angel’s doing embraced,
    By the clay beings caressing evil like a frailly.

By God not, who from heaven him displaced.
    Yet, the legacy of the wrong stands humanly,
In Thailand, America, Palestine, and all graced -
     A grace of sinfulness celestial and worldly.  

Religion is the poor’s only ultimate truth,
     the rich’s side hustle, and the rulers’ tool;
It is the loss of power that defiles the sooth,
    The one the poor has not, but does the fool.

Robbers’ servants, bread crumbs consumers,
    Toothless **** dogs, emaciated lost tramps,
Little blind pawns, vultures’ puppets, tumours,
    And wrenches they are, the upper hand’s lambs.

If only Raguel’s judgements fall upon man,
    Raphael’s punishment beautifies this existence,
Gabriel’s wrath makes not all humans ane,
    And Michael saves us, the Sarahs, in assistance.

In the heart deepened with old repression,
   That mounts with plenitude of filtered feels,
Resides a universe yearning for expression,
    In a meat clay who feeds on calories of meals.

Man, in the genesis, in the light, in the dark,
    In prosperity, in turmoil, triumphed with vices;
vileness, abuse, wreckage is our sole mark,
    On this planet whose population is in slices.

There we stood, resplendent, in our articles of war
daring for a moment to forget the matters core--
that death and dying looming, like mountains in the night,
would be the grim reward for those who'd dared to fight.

The British expedition, in that humid august air,
would hoist the recognition of mankind's new despair;
the wave of Schlieffen's reckoning had broken us that day
and the yeoman of Agincourt had come and gone away.

We fought and bled and fought and died a day or two at Mons,
but soon retreat was sounded, a melody to pawns.
French soil stained in English blood and washed in English tears
then tilled by German cannons for four more ******* years

was less the blessing we first conceived, that bitter, deafening fall,
so late in 1914, when the Great War came to call.
The salient crumbled, frailly; a grave portent it seemed,
soon would come the Somme, Verdun, and horrors never dreamed.

Like an animal of the night, my wolf spirit chases,
An exquisite insanity, one in which I revel,
A slow prey with poisonous blood and sweat, with three faces
That, when caught, it whispers to me frailly, in hope to bedevil.

One face spits drunk and boiled spillage,
This one barks passionately without end.
The stock face of an accepted devilry, an advantage,
And an addictive **** that it lets out, a disadvantageous blend.

The other two look normal, but they rarely make sounds,
The deranged smoker is a thinker, a dying fool,
While the one in charge listens, teaches and knows,
While it fights with the other two.

The prey never runs away, but it sickly comes back to taunt my soul.
It tries to enthrall me with its black art, knowing my weaknesses by heart,
Sometimes I catch the prey, to which I whisper: “Feel my spit, black like a coal,
Never come back, you better hide, you haven’t seen yet my crazy part.”

And with a magical schism the prey splits
And hungry for adrenaline, my spirit chases them

a more particularly dreaming fatally clings
to my head, of your dramatically stupid
love, i uncarefully plummet into and

               thought

                                  by
                                             thought      
    

climb up the dust
of your sternly remembered ***

and the ******
of your healthy florid stroking, the

homely distinct razor of your kiss
and the limpid flavor of your hips

enamors

inch
by
inch

up my thigh
strangling me in the faintly
distilled miracle

of your frailly killing idea

You gave me your doubts,
your fears, troubles and all,
you came to me broken,
I came to break your fall.

I will not be your knight,
whose armor shines in the sun,
nor shall I be your hero,
not even "The One".

For I am your friend,
and that's all I'll ever be,
because that's what you really,
really need from me.

You don't need my life,
just my love and compassion,
please don't read too deep,
into every word and little action.

I am already signed and my heart already claimed,
please do not hang your head down,
down, ashamed.

You've done nothing to deserve that,
you're lost and confused I know,
so you came to a friend,
a friend you trusted you could go.

And I'm humbled and honored, that you would call me as such,
but I'm afraid that even I,
even I can only offer so much.

I'll give you food, water, medicine and supplies,
if you in trade give me your story, truth instead of lies.
For the house of cards you frailly built upon,
will blow away at the slightest breath, and then it shall be....
gone.

But I will point you to the Rock, to where you may solidly stand,
this shall be your safe ground, as it is Holy Land.
One day you'll realize, the beauty of your soul
is worth saving and the life you're living, actually has a goal.

You gave me reasons, why not to at all,
here I'm giving you the same, as to why you should live,
because my heart and friendship goes out to you, that much I can give.

One day, you'll thank me, and even your Maker,
for the bread was made of ingredients like you and me,
but Trust in God our Father, for He is like a Baker.

He'll kneed you, fold you, break you and mold you,
He'll do what it takes, to make you anew.

You are His Child, even if you don't know it now,
you'll find out soon enough, some way, some how.

Until then, and even after, I'll pray for you always,
and I shall always be your friend, for the rest of my days.

You... give me reason, to live and fight on,
now let me give you another chance, to see another beautiful dawn.

The photo of her high tea                            
With its flowery cups,                                  
Its cookies and scones,                                
Arranged in aesthetic order,                      
Filtered to perfection and                            
Posted online soon after,                            
Is her current most-liked.                              

The scene of him frailly
Scouring the waste truck,
His skin invaded by bones,
And bathed in gloomy odour,
Painted with deprivation and
Destitute disorder,
Doesn't make it to the spotlight.

*The High Tea meanwhile, earns another Like

Dead leaves are colorful,
aren’t they?
laying like a frozen dance
atop the dewed staves
were seen every day
waiting below.

Dead leaves gave their bodies
to the upward aching hands
of a graying yard this morning.
Dead leaves were tranced in
the whole apparition
this morning.

The sun made snow falls
frailly through mist on my
friable face.
Am I an old man, already?
I don’t ask if it’s the change
made them fall. I don’t ask—
I know.
Time breeds wisdom
and also Alzheimer’s.
But it doesn’t matter, we’ve
learned to laugh at Woody Allen
movies, after all,
haven’t we?
Dead leaves are colorful,
aren’t they? Aren’t we?

Porcelain Spider Under the Cellar Door

She sees a person as spool of yarn,
Taking your lifeline and threading it through her own needle,
Round and round you spin as she turns you into something to adorn,
Such an excellent seamstress the mindful spider is,
Sowing painted backless dresses to give the illusion of a spine,
Missing fragmented fractions of her web, she’s blind,
Stark, stacked illusions of what lies beyond a cellar door,
In the inner shadows of the light,
She fears no height, though bore in darkness,
Leg and fang she fought,
Fighting for frail frivolity of position and pose,
******* parts of souls in her aesthetic but potent web,
Missing lines, lanes, but layered intricately allowing illusion of a periled princess,
On her painted round ****, a red hourglass turns to eyes,
Dancing with half dead perspective “insects” assigning value,
Whispering lies,
Clinging to, now, a somewhat familiar light,
Never letting her eyes adjust she refuses to rise,
Periled perfection is her guise,
Hiding in the cracks of the steps and floor,
Content under the rusty bolted hinges of a cellar door,
She never has enough, even at the edge,
The rough taciturn of her mind is never set,
Keeping half dead insects, so long in her web,
Sometimes they expire,
Other times they break and breach her bountiful cacoon,
Falling into the abyss laying underneath that cellar door,
Some recover,
Some feel new found darkness never felt before,
She slides and falls frailly when situations slip from sight,
Using partially passed insects to patch her ornamental paint and aesthetic might,
Having brushed layers of color with their guts,
Shriveled, they fall away from her web,
Her web a half living, half dead farm
And she wails at their loss,
While spinning,
Another web..
She see a person as a spool of yarn...

children
are a flame that is already kindled
and you must be careful not to extinguish it
for they will hold the water you poured all over their souls
deep inside them
forever.
children
are carpenters
engineers
painters
and when you build for them
build them a platform for them to explore from
not a box for them to fill.
children
are galaxies,
spinning, beautiful, incredibly deep
they are flowers, with tender pistils
and incredibly fertile stamen
they are grass that will not strangle eah other
until you stomp on them
they are clouds that move frailly,
bound by the wind and bearing but one load of rain
they are wells: the deeper you dig, the more you find,
the farther the bottom goes,
they are dancers: turn off the music for just a second, and the mood is ruined
they are all these things
but above all,
they are children,
and they should be guarded
and held as tenderly
as our own hearts-
even more so, for I am careless with my heart-
I will guard the children like I guard my mind,
lay down my life and pick up my armor
anything, everything,
for these, the most beautiful and perfect of us all.

You're prettier than a tree
Nonchalant beauty alone
Up the bare hill
Reposes in the golden Beams
lightly warm and free
to placate the moody wind
in the abode of leams
far from the thirsty rill
and the doggedly crow
and all of it I can imagine to own
Far in the abandoned land
Beyond that bare hill
Where a lake mimics tranquility
A womb of life laden and still
Mirrors as your calm beauty
And all of it I can see
From my dormer window
From a portrait of me
A sketch unframed, unfinished
On an easel, fancifully colored
Waits frailly thy brush and hand
To accomplish my metamorphosis
To achieve thy miraculous guesses
Of the unity of pure whiteness
And colors of passionate kisses.

Written by
Jamal Abboud

Are the cracks growing in my ceiling
or am I only concentrated
on the negative spaces
and empty places,
fissures in the faceless vagueness?
I move my head but gaze, in stasis, braces,
fixatedly captivated but basis irritated;
besieged and bested, complicated.
Frayed and frailly agitated,
lines and lesions, slow invaded;
vision ruptured, edges bladed,
sharp incisions boldly stated.
Blank slate, once naked, now degraded;
canvas chasms, saw’s jaws serrated;
damage disfigures, divisions direction dictated: separated...
Buy had I forgotten exactly what made it?
Not the flawless form created but perfection, idly sated.