Pathways.

Knowing your place in the world is half the battle
the other half is to embrace it.
The eternal question of one's raison d'etre
preoccupy the minds of the restless.

A man in searching, travels
A contended one occasionally ponders it
A happy man stays at home
but a lost one, he is a prisoner.

Disdain

I used to think you and I share an understanding
of what it means to be dazzled by light
as seen from the depths of an abyss.
Reaching out to the world above.

When the dark seeps into my marrows
I reassure myself that you feel it too.
When my nights seem endless
I believed that you too were sleepless.

Time unraveled the cocoon I've spun
over my eyes and now I see they're all lies.
Don't fret I do not blame you
I realize now you were never my consort.

For awhile, the confusion caused me turmoil
and I was spiteful and inconsolable.
Now I see clearly, truly,
you're not understanding, merely condescending.

Blackhole

I now know how poisonous heartbreak is
it cripples your mind and weakens you.
Your thoughts swirl with the elusive pain
giving the illusion that nothing is wrong
when everything is.

Taking the edge off by drowning yourself
in whatever that numbs your senses or otherwise
set fire to it entirely. As long as you don't feel
that acute awareness of hurting. You're so withdrawn,
each heartbeat explodes in your ears.

I have never known you to be cruel but you actually are,
just not intentionally, which makes you infinitely more so.
I don't think you realize that  each time I come to you
I give it all up. Each time, in complete surrender
I let you caress my crystal heart.

In fear that one of its many cracks growing
of it completely shattering, I bare you my flawed existence.
I tremble when you sigh. Your dissapointment
suffocates me. I silence my cries when you turn away
and pretend to leave me. It kills me.

I stand before you today to ask for one last favour,
that you never say my name again. Don't even whisper it.
Not in your dreams, not even in the muted privacy
of your solitary thoughts because each time that you do,
it echoes through the universe and finds me.

My silence.

Time and again I regret words I've spoken
they hung in the air, alone and bare.
In my head I play constant revisions
of things I wish I've said differently
but more importantly, more honestly.

Most of the time, meanings are left behind
for my half-utterances are half-truths.
I do not mean to side-step when questioned,
just an impulse born of this fragility I'm sanctioned.
My world is small, what intrudes stays for good.

If I do not say much and it hurts you
do realize that my silence is my strength.
What little I have shared with you
if it's not enough or worse, offends you
I apologize but realize my silence is just a disguise.

In my dreams I show you a great painting
that bare to you all that I want to say.
You run your hands over them where lay
all my truths, all my feelings.
Before it we stood and embrace in silence.

Rimbaud

I stumbled upon Rimbaud
and his lunacy entranced me.
But then I discovered blasphemy
and it disgusts me.

But Rimbaud, upon your last hour
you  repeatedly whisper 'Allahu karim'!
'God is generous'.
Did you finally see?

Your renouncing poetry and your
wayward-life.
was the travelling in search of Truth?
Of you, too much is mystery.

But you taught the children the Qur'an
and studied your father's translation.
Am I naive?
For wanting to believe that you too, believe?

Regardless, the elaborate affairs we live
rests in the blessings of The One.
What flowers we pluck in this life
its pollen, this poem everything comes from Him.

The Poet II

What woes a poet bear is his and his alone.
No other in his world ever breaches his trust
that he may put words from his soul to the air
where they sublimate.

Trysts with muses may occur but the poet will withdraw
when the inevitable solitariness descends.
If it is by accident that this universe is lonely
then it is by nature that the poet sees beauty.

He calls Beauty by names in secret languages
and feeds her his lifeblood.
What is borne then into their private atmosphere
is lost to all spare them.

A wordsmith spits fire. A true poet burns, illuminates his generation
guiding them with voices guiding him, sung throughout his being.
Half-utterances dies on his lips and thwarts him
yet on paper he is a paragon.

Any time now.

Don't insult me with wild accusations
there is little that I care about in this world.
Any less than now would fare me badly.
Any time now.
I won't be waiting
But it's any time now.

If it strikes your fancy, then exclude me.
Just wholly, leave me be.
I'm but bones of a long dead long forgotten idea.
A vague memory not worth the effort of pondering.
So do forget.
But it's any time now.

I will fade slowly but absolutely.
Not a faint image of me will flit through anymore.
I won't haunt you like faint music heard at a distance
because it's clear to me that I'm not capable of such significance.
Not then, not now, not ever.
So it's any time now.

Giant wings will fly me away
and wipe me away
from the shores that is your memory
long before you could even think
of throwing me away.
Because it's any time now.

Cry to Death.

Stinging your eyes

tears brings you bodily pain

giving leverage to the cuts

bruises or scars you merely feel.

A mechanism that purges you

and drowns you.

It affirms, justifies your right to wallow in hurt.

Often you wonder if it heals

or merely aggravates your grief, rage.

If one looks closely, not with eyes, with humanity

each drop bears an image of the poison

or weapon that inflicted the victim.

Each drop bears life of its own

captured words, actions, expressions. 

A parade of tirades.

But tears, I hate you.

Life does not wait and you stall me.

Wretched tears, you trap me.
You pry me of stately grace
submit me to disgrace.

Indolently sliding, sparkly tears

you bare me my fears.

If all my life is flowed into you

and this lifelessness escalates,

tell me, what of me will be left?