Ink Drops

A drop of ink on my daily life,
Ripples through the storms,
Turns clouds into starry nights,
And when the sun resurrects,
It creates a flock of birdsongs,
As if oases in nearby deserts
Can recreate a treasure map,
But I insisted on believing in it,
Storytellers of ink-filled papers,
To keep writing, I drop the ink.

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.

Read Between the Lines

A chronicler dwells in clear waters,
Just on the outskirts of a red post,
The prison, to which many others
Have escaped, is now left behind
To crumble before emerald trees,
Maps drawn to find this treasure,
But a compass might fail to work
Over here next to the nine paths,
The legend might just be a myth,
But to me, you only have to heed,
There is this man who disappeared
Behind the shadows of two sisters
That resided the crumbling prison,
So, avoid the chronicler that dwells
In clear waters for your own sake,
Find those who escaped and set
Them free from this awfully chaotic
World that is deemed to fall in the
Wrong hands like that of the sisters,
But love the rituals in the legend,
Sketched out of suns and moons,
Sending the star back to the post.