Of Moons and Men

What if two moons
Endure a fated collision,
And then plan to invade
The vibrant green planet,
Crashing on its crust
To pull it together or apart,
Bleeding into its valleys
Distancing its wounds from the past,
Their debris treasured
Within the depths of graves,
Men to erect totems
For a sacrificial burial,
A possible resurrection
To rule over other Men,
Lustful villainous desires
Ending in an abyssal black hole,
Woes to the greed of Men
As the moons glow in ascension.

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Panogestically Awkward

A being of awkwardness,
Slides his phone out,
Opens the camera,
Holds it high in the air,
Records from right to left,
Stops at where I sit,
Right hand pinches outward,
Zooms into me I guess,
A being of awkwardness with a
Good panogestically ramic video,
But lacks nature,
No stars or constellations,
Neither streams or trees,
Ah the struggle of nature
In the presence of awkward men.

Urbanisation of the East

I dig into the graves of the butterflies –
Once soaring over the habitats of men
To share a dancing ritual in a ceremony –
And I find the final jigsaw puzzle piece,
Puzzling my peaceful self as I unearth the truth,
Concrete cremating our buried Mother Nature.

The Death of Stars

Since the dark ages of Apollo cursing
The crow, the cup, and the water snake,
Since the monsters of our own beings
Reproduced the wonders of storytelling,
Will we ever forsake some of our privileges
To remember the sacred names of nature?
He arises among the debris to denounce
The arrogance of the stars in the Big Dipper,

And from dusk to dawn unearthing
The shapeless bones of a raging soul,
Fiery in the sense of a burning coal,
And Hydra with its fading tail soon
Took its head to devour the gods of men,
And it curves around celestial bodies,
Travelling through copious dimensions,
To find a relic and reclaim the throne,

Except, the presence of another monster,
Quivering the heavens into a black hole,
Hercules now far from reaching its neck,
An old neighbour of the grape gatherer,
With its blistered bellowing barks asking
For a chance to show its beautiful heart,
But since earthly men never truly change,
Facing Polaris, the monster was publicly slain.

Stolen Maps

Men have long stolen maps of earth,
They have recreated them defective,
Nature’s eminence was casted away,
They were cursed: those who learnt
The truth along with buried treasures,
Not from nature, no, nature never
Curses as it only wages old beauty,
But men curse their own avaricious
Selves into their own burial ceremony,
And nature keeps outliving those men,
You see, men want to own everything,
They even look up towards heaven,
And search for maps that show them
The stairs to climb and the gates to
Take down, but then nature prevails,
Sending them into the depths of an
Ancient dust forgotten beyond the
Creation of you, and me, and Time.

Leaving Steampunk City

Hold the fort and wait for the cavalry, they said –
Pick our side and you will see victory, they said –
And there was a time when I believed their word,
Where I stood on castles fuming all coloured trees
To ground for trebuchets to fly us out of abyss,
But day after day we painted our great walls
With smog to block our breaths into darkness,
Gates were only opened to nature’s black debris,
Resisting was I to the temptation to leave all
Behind and hammer into similar enslavement
But on a different earth, a different whisper,
Somewhere where the greyness was never the
Symbol of life and all its essence, where our
Lost souls belonged to colours lifting us out of
Abyss without any sign of fumed destruction,
So, I followed my sailing eyes to an unknown
Horizon away from all kinds of hearts of men,
So, I let go of the fort and I picked my own side.