To Reach Her Heartbeat

A sudden movement of a pulsating star
Might indicate a celestial heartbeat,
One that awaits many hugs and kisses,
Awaiting on the shores of hope,
Listening to the whispers of life,
Leaving footprints on our sand,
Now constellations start to play darts,
And I might have missed the bullseye,
But I still look towards the pulsating star,
Hoping to reach her heartbeats, one day.

Rest In Pieces

Blow the minds of the universe
And show me the curses of mankind,
If I have not created more paths,
More people will surely suffocate me,
Betray all that I have said to you,
All the passion and all of me you vaporised,
Leave me be and let me descend into
The darker than black abyss,
Constellations disappeared,
And now I am no one, none.

You may call on the birds and
All natural beauties of this universe,
And all I shall be to you is utter silence,
You may quake the earth under my soul,
Or explode the mountains into ashen volcanoes,
But I shall stay always in infinite silence,
Leave me be for I have chosen my
Intricate being to smile on the few stars,
Begone! For the constellations have
Disappeared, and now I am no one, none.

Three Celestial Miracles

When the moon nourishes the heart of a forlorn sand,
And when the shooting star orbits around Polaris,
Where shall the nomadic sand go to seek seeds of guidance?
If not for the celestial bodies embedded in our skies,
The moon would dwell on uneven edges of the Earth,
But as a sand seeking a fruitful tomorrow,
I camp on mountainous constellations,
Listening to Polaris’ revelations,
How the everlasting silences of the shooting star
Will recreate the Big Bang,
How the infinite smiles of the moon
Will redirect the flow of Time,
And we may once more wonder where will the
Forlorn nomadic sand be if not for these three?

A Selfie with Aliens

Look beyond a constellation’s wink,
And fiddle with your telescope’s lens,
Now take a sip from your cold drink,
As you will find the rarest of gems,
Do not stop there and take a breath,
Deep enough to silence your giggles,
Floppy beings that escape their death,
Always in their pods that wiggles,
Manoeuvring around huge asteroids,
Following them with your telescope,
It appears they also have androids,
Repairing but barely able to cope,
Blueish fingers now pointing at you,
Aliens approaching this ancient land,
No one will believe even if it’s true,
The camera! Next to your left hand,
You grab it for a picture as a proof
That aliens are real and not a spoof.

Slán Abhaile

Today, I inscribe warm letters from my free soul,
For the land who speaks an ancient language,
For its people whose voices resonate within me,
For those from other lands with different tongues,
A mixture of magical luminescence living together,
In symbiotic attraction dancing along a constellation,
Governed by voluntary smiles and peaceful hugs,
Twinkling in their lovely portraits within my poetry,
And I forever remember them as I place each star
On my heart’s ceiling for guidance at each heartbeat,
Lub-dub for few tears, lub-dub for more smiles,
Lub-dub for a farewell, lub-dub for a way forward.

Sigh

Sigh! The wisdom these eyes carry through
The mirror that stands before me reflects
A knackered young soul. Sigh! You probably
Noticed my deep ancient breaths smoking
Out all this world’s excitement. Sigh! If I
Have ever walked the steps towards the
Starry constellation, then many galaxies
Would only pause for a second and glare
At my daring revolution. Sigh! But since I
Have lost the ability to imitate a bouncy
Toddler, I now sit back under this colossal
Canopy to watch the world from afar. Sigh!

Painting a Portrait

The two-dimensioned dilemma switched sides
To impersonate historical ageless Time where
At one end the black-and-white canvas would
Rotate into a pictorial film and scream aloud
Ancient symbolic letters for peace and justice.

Certainly, this era’s dogma about our truly old
Unpainted portraits revolved around ignoring
The essence of life dismissing the colossal law
Of the starry constellations among our shining
Sun, our glowing Moon, and our celestial souls.

Then the plot thickens after an innocent kid
Picks up brushes and a colour-filled palette
To openly colour its own portrait accidentally
Triggering the reversal movements of Time
As anti-clockwise severely destroys all dreams.

Albeit, the kid grows and learns to unlock
That treasure box and remove the partially
Painted canvas to tear it apart in hope that
One day Time will listen to this kid’s sorrows
Switching back to a one-dimensioned film.