Of Slangs and the Line

Seasons're drenching
each other out -
summer is to temperature and dead leaves are to fall,
these lost little horizons and we're mouthing
marvel at the days he lives
Everyday in spiral clouds
at setting sun's backdrop
while the day's wrapped
with nighttime,
but oh he knew not too well
even if we're the sun's orange sparks,
for it's all us we sell,
it's us and we sell relationships -
but again with time
we're on our own as the day bathes anew,
we're all aware where the line is
and the one who doesn't know is you

Folkdance

The leaves, falling,
breeze on the rise
and the moon soaked night
while the lazy world is yours
in untimely sighs
and time, the universe,
the cadence's woes
are yours to take
and but with prayers
for solitude
while your heart is theirs
to break,
stealing these daylights
that cringe with a hiss,
slithering onto you -
It's time for the waltz.

Raven-haired Firefly Pt. 2 (Untitled)

Time passes by too quickly
but I walk for all dreaminess -
Do you always go to where I'm not,
but innocently;
They are zephyr on my hands
and to the mind's cadence
Would I be a castle
when we're too much to hope,
to you the luminary?
I see you staring at the skies

Towering is that wall
with players at its other side;
I can't recall
Nay, I think I'm better as soldier;
that I may well be wounded,
play for time again and all over,
and all my sharp edge's where you're headed,

or wage war with time if you prefer
I can break, I can carry on –
I'm not the good 'ole sweet player,
But I think I can still strike you
for our nighttime's warmth
and fade away with time –
Or you can always pass me by

Resting, 'ole aimless memory;
you walk off too vaguely

At Sundown (Interlude)

Down by the roadside of urbanized terrorists
of minds and other investments, I'm always
at the sidewalks,
looking on,
always gone with the sleep and imagination
even in wakefulness -
The sunbeams're faint, subtler than
I remembered,
back when everyone was no one to me,
when the world's too vigorous
and when daffodils're too pale for a flower -
when tomorrow's too common and everybody is happy.
Summer was everywhere back then
and I liked best the way my
friends and I would carry on
despite the nuisance - but it's a fine day, today,
it's a dry winter and everyone's too busy
to be anybody for somebody.
This time around,
I'm too busy to be busy - when the world's
becoming its opposite, when the thrills
of the world're angst-driven jays I'm seeing
by the trees mouthing noir; I'd like to think that I was
everyone, whose happiness's
too much for their own good -
By the time the earth smelled
nicotine, I realized
that it was a one-way street of
self-same idiocy of wordplays; that though
I'd trade forever over a minute
of seeing you -
I had to walk on like the rest does,
an accident of existence
and turning mountains into turfs,
rivers to filth -
picturesque indifference into vague substitutes of doubt;
and the fearsome sunbeams
which I dread since reason bore me
are now always short of resolves -
It was always the way the larks
sang about you that gave me more
strength and weakness at the same time,
and it was always
that erratic melody
which reminded me of ill-forgotten summers;
and you're always there,
pale and raven-haired,
nonchalant as those eyes kill the hopeful -
that you and your innocence against my accidence
make this journey more painful.
There're no clouds but the sun's still gloomy,
the winds're strong enough, seizing
the afternoon, and I'm too stubborn -
So I rest - waiting
for tonight when the world's too tired
and when daffodils're blooming -
when tomorrow's set adrift and everybody's asleep;
when I'm too empty I can only sigh your name -
and I start carrying on, alone at sundown,
and no one'll ever notice.

Sighing Silence

Sighing for reprieve
and the draft is set apart
The silence that drifts
and the spaces that you sieve
Advents are the thieves
of restraint and spirit,
bothered as it goes –
Your paleness of a touch
as it passes him by
You're both silently fine

because words will snatch
all that you both enjoy
So wait like the silence,
under your eyes' wraps –
whatever you’re keen on

His truths're uptight
that your eyes will kill him
and bleed thankfully –

Sighing silence and
this's the best of who he is
and the sight of
the sunbeams and the rains
are nothing to your unruly hair
as he carries on,

You both watch with time
and he's parked himself
ahead of you, traveling with mirthful strangers,
And when it's all over
They gaze each other like they wish it,
ye, staring like they’re wishing

The Rhyme of Decadence

Ashes are drifting in shadows
Symptoms of conscience or lack thereof
Hypocritical or heartfelt
Unmoving in the burrows, and the
mind amends, in the hope that you
char beautifully in your own threat

Hypocritical or heartfelt
And in shadows there are too many
hyenas distanced from that razed
economy with truth, and you break
down with your confidential catch
And the mind amends, in joy htta you
are breathing your last like you should

Earnestness or pretense
Both ways lead to your loss
Oh pitiful silence!

Such a standstill in your own shadows...

The Old Shakespearean Way

Raven-haired whilst
it sings with the winds
It's the old Shakespearean way
With my eyes breathing
Of you in the distance –
shunning, that sweet dreams come
Bitter with your tastelessness,
albeit living – but you are
My queen
and everything good, frozen again
And I'd be lucid enough,
invisible at your disposal –
I have done it with a handful of dirt,
I killed you with a terrible mind,
I've made you travel everywhere,
and but nowhere to be seen;
Like the raven-haired as
it swims in the ocean
Of the old mindful way
and if I'm a thought, as if you’d think;
But Ill do.

Realizations

When it’s time to be weary
it’d come to you agreeably,
this lovely afternoon
with a thousand apples
at absolutely no cost
with only yourself to
bargain, with a thousand laughs
with the things you love the most
And when there’s nothing to do
and when all’s in store,
sway with the breeze
then you’ll find some more

The Human Perfection (3rd Interlude)

A human has
his own vulnerabilities,
and time would haunt
Him of them.
But in the sweetness
from the bitter life,
He is however a god
whose flaws
are perfection,
whose impeccability
is evolution.

Those Vertical Lines

The silence between what
you speak is the most
Meaningful at the depths of
ignorance that I seem to
Downplay, and it becomes an
enchantment with every shift of
Your hands, the way your sight
recedes in utter scrutiny,
Seemingly,
and all I could muster
Is my hope
that the things you do
Are more than what I think they are.

Dear Cigar

Summer's well, and the
Man sells himself for
switch-hitting anything
and plays his game
like simple cocktail smiles
And it's just
The way he wants
it to become,
this barter for distraction
as he tells his
Cigar the games
that he played,
and how he didn't hit
anything and
lost to games' sour aftertaste.

Sugarsweetbitterthrills

Travelling with no
frontiers to escape
the monkey-eagle
The lark
sings its utter cry
to the daffodil fields,
finding itself
back to its nest of
spring leaves
by the shrubs --
by the forest of shrubs
where it can find
the jays, alarmed
and they cry --
The lark
sings its melody
to the fields,
finding itself
back to its nest
outlined all along
by the
autumn undergrowth.

Smoke

I'm staring at the sky,
just riding with the clouds;
Praying to wash the days anew in the drought
As the sun decides to die but it rained
I knew they were those clouds
but it was just ashen smoke -
So now I'm staring at your eyes,
eating me alive;
Wishing for rain or maybe heavier
And when it all comes to end,
those little dull eyes;
I knew they were my sky
but it was just ashen smoke
And say it lingers
but I'm happy for silence or maybe quieter...
It's too much to hope

That Smile

Was it the zephyr who hissed
over a lonely cup of coffee
when I said you hold true
to the things you could be,
that I hardly look
but I always judge;
And until the sun,
until the sun could guise the smile -
and the sad breeze,
the recurring nightmares of the hopeless,
and over a cup of coffee,
I am colder.

Eventual Paintbrush

You are an eventual paintbrush
The colors that you take
and the shades you make;
Out of place and only familiar
but you're a cigarette away
The lines that you draw
and I see twilight star
The outlines of your strangeness
marks the style of your exuberance;
and carrying with me the reverie,
every ache
and every painter will stroke you to your nearness,
And shall I paint with you too?

Dreaming ahead
and I paint my difference
in the pastel fields
and sketchy corners of the world;
I can only paint my word