Inexistence

Still warm these ashes that rise,
Smoldering still in the aftermath,
Of the moment that is and was,
Unseen is the world around,
Unheard is every cry and every sound,


Ominous and deafening sounds near ,
Shallow and deep breaths reappear,
Clouds of fear and screams,
Waft and dance above,
Like an orgy of blood and tears.




Is this a fight or is it a feast,
Is it a victory or is it retreat,
Is there a winner or is everyone lost,
Is there anyone who isn't a walking corpse...




Still warm these ashes that rise,
Still blue the sky that once was,
Veiled is now in melancholic white.


Wandering amidst the rubble,
These lost and dazed faces,
Caked in gray masks of inexistence...

(inspired by the Syrian crisis)

A Sense of You

In the bloodstream
You exist
Not in a visceral reality
But an essence
Like a crushed jasmine flower
Bleeding in the palms
Of playful lovers

In each breath
You exist
Not in a weighted presence
But a fragrance
Of dessicated roses
Thrown in the faces
Of deceitful lovers

In each sound
You exist
Not in a mellifluous voice
But like the paean
Of a roadside fakeer
Lost in the melody
Of heaven's whispers

In every taste
You exist
Not in a succulent savor
But like sweet nectars
Of childhood memories
Left haunted in the minds
Of nostalgic wanderers

In each touch
You exist
Not in a physical reality
But an existence
Of debilitating certainty
Crawling over the hearts
Of stone and ash

You exist

As the dreamers and those awake
Fall into the madness of love

Red

Red like the embers of the judgement fire,
Red like the twilight flame burning higher,
Red like the blood of corpses deceased,
Red like the wailing prayers of the priest,
Red like the eyes of the dead ones waking,
Red like the tremors of the cowards shaking,
Red like fire and Red like pain,
Red like the heart bleeding through your vein...

The Oblique and The Mystique

What tears may come soak them,
What blood may spill burn it,
You the lover of the oblique,
You the seeker of the mystique,
Drown the memories of yesterday,
It doesn't exist...
It doesn't exist...
Reality is your mirror now,
The rest simply doesn't exist...

The Mirror

What tears may come soak them,
What blood may spill burn it,
You the lover of the oblique,
And the seeker of the mystique,
Drown the memories of yesterday,
It doesn't exist...
It doesn't exist...
Reality is your mirror now,
The rest simply doesn't exist...

The Prayer

The crowd stands in unison,
Shoulder to shoulder,
Like soldiers defending a fallen city,
The crowd stands in unison,
And the call of the muezzin begins...
The prayer of the twilight,
The advent of the feast of the soul,
Begins as angels shower god's love,
And the revelers bask its blinding glory,
The nameless one remains sheltered,
Cloaked in the mask of disillusion,
The nameless one remains bitter,
Sheltered in the umbrella of his deceit...

The Matam

He remains not of this world,
and yet His body walks among us,
His form raised above all in chant,
Hovering over this sea of men,
Drowning in tears, flowers and rain,
He awakens not to the sound of thunder,
He awakens not to the sound of rain...

At the Banks of the River

My existence is lost, I am merely a wanderer,
I am not of this world, nor am I of the beyond,
These eyes search endlessly for the heartbeats,
Pounding away (loudly) in the forgotten corners of this land,
My existence is lost, I am merely a wanderer,
One who searches during the day and by the starlight night,
One who searches in the searing sun, and under the silver moon,
One who searches until he has forgotten all else that mattered,
If you ask him his name, he gazes in ponder,
And he points to the silent cries in the distance...

His existence is lost, he is merely a wanderer,
He is not of this world, nor is he of the beyond,
nothing remains for him in this emptiness and hollow,
He talks of angels and demons hitherto unknown,
haunted it seems he remains like a cowardly animal,
crossing the thin mango bark over the raging river,
This wanderer roaming still,
Aimlessly like a madman,
The wanderer roaming still,
Searching for a few lost heartbeats...

The Metamorphosis

The metamorphosis is complete,
As the second hand begins its sweep,
The hour is born from the womb,
The Aegis of the minute,
Of the day of the month of the year,
Begins dwindling and churning,
Grinding and turning,
My existence lurches still,
Not forward nor back,
Non existent, but still physical,
Searching for something,
In the cloudy eyes empty,
of all promise,
The Ghosts of the past,
return once again to haunt,
And the metamorphosis is now complete.

The Crawl

The narrow walls crawl closer

Immitating the dark corners of the mind

The ominous ticking of the clock

Inches closer to the hour at hand

As darkness creeps over the

Petulant and fertile lands still

Thawing from the frozen winter

Of discontent and disgrace

The narrow walls crawl closer still

And I become one with myself.