INVICTUS
My origin is the fall of a leaf
Upon the midnight sand
That skips a torment's breath
To paint an art so grand !
Bring upon me the wraths
Ominous to the monarchy
That my existence blooms with
To sniff the birth of me
The chronicles of diadem
I carry in my palms
Which bear lost melodies
Sung as in psalms
The world's a street of spirits
Emblazoned with woeful a giggle ,
In the gaze so infernal
All the dark sights shall I juggle
The halo of lightning and dust
Pirouette in merry blues -
Even over the tombstone
Where I be my muse !
12¹¹2∅¹9
MOMENTS
The urn at the center, do you see?
Where the faint sunlight of dusk
Gathers to narrate some tales
Which are not written anywhere
But over the petals-
Dark and covetous,
Of the flowers that bloom in the season
Constructed by many as "Failures"
But over time I've garnered every bit,
Every moment when I felt like giving up,
When my pink bones and milk teeth
Called for a revolution
Against the existence in fractions
To grow up whole once more
And cling to the torn threads
Painted in red
With the blood and sweat
And catalysts to the onset of a berserk
I water the flowers
And cherish the fragrance
That takes birth when the sun sets;
And the gale breaks in
Screaming the euthanasia of past
And darkness
Fluking the contours of the urn
To wake me up with the dawn
Once more!
GODLY
Shall we sit down at the shrine
Where it all may end up well ,
We'll count seconds amidst the roar
And dig deeper than before
With a tight grasp of the last night
To see the burnt cigars in floating lungs
To hear the wine bottles roll inside cellared livers
Shall we sit down at the shrine
Where in a solitary bliss found anew -
Will answers pop a purpose like soft balloons
Pricked by a needle blown into air ,
In vacant waves they'll fly fair
For an art to find that is hidden
In a shroud of lofty revolutions
Shall we sit down amidst stories
Listening and making others listen
About wars for corroded peace
About changing beliefs and broken trusts,
As we feel the setting sun and rising moon
As we mourn for the lost soon
Just to begin with an end
Shall we drown in the muddy grave
Worshipping the dead breaths of our own -
So frail and broken free like dust traces
Near fallen pillars which stood in pride , once
For years in a race run by rats to feed intestines
And here not to plead to you , my Lord
We pay ourselves rotten , to Death
I celebrate the birth of death
With a cut piece of cake
Upon a chiffon cover so neat
And a welcome song so rare