Nature Talks No More

Mystical winds enveloped my breaths,
And took control over how I sang my soul,
And onto the ancient stones of a labyrinth,
I was raised into the heavens up above to
Shout cries of the earthly wonders to those
Who slowly kissed our hallow moon. And left.

The trees that fed us their roots for a revival,
Joined the ritual to dance their wisdom minds
Into our explorative souls that continued to fly
Into the depths of the seas, and to soar over the
Heights of the mountains – there I hugged the
Roots into a dance along the forest. And halted.

The nature’s musical stops at a beat that beats
The beating hearts into a shocking stop stopped
Beyond awakening – a deathly shock – bereaved
At the notion that everything is from beauty,
And hence, everything will return to beauty,
My beloved nature was cremated. And silenced.

Lunar Chants

Glow a memory of the past,
And live by yourself at last,
Produce an abstract so vast,
A relic for your eyes to blast,
A symbolic eerie halo to cast
A spell leaving minds aghast,
To our lunar rituals of the past,
We look at your beauty at last,
Within your glory lives a vast
Energetic singularity to blast,
Forlorn shadows start to cast
Under your glow never aghast.

My Twin

This angel that I’m inscribing letters to
Has placed many lovely prints on my
Final magical days in the lands of Gael,
We met a while ago but the exhausting
Spin of this world has put the gravity
On our shoulders to never meet again,
Except recently where we discovered
The popularity of (in chorus) corazón,
After which we began sharing melodic
Remedies for the mind, body, and soul,
This angel is now my twin who explores
With me dimensions of ecstatic dances,
And we start our sentences with laughs,
And we randomly end it with even more.

Fifty

Fifty is a random number,
Attracted by the logical
Mathematical calculating
Alphanumeric functional
Mind that dwells in many
Vastly complex equations,
Fifty can be very random,
But in marketing, it is not,
Simple fact of its worth
Will only be noted when
The equation is challenged,
And instead of an integer
Like fifty, a more profiting
Number is the forty-nine
Point ninety-nine, and
That is the worth of an
Item worthy of a fifty,
Fifty is not that random,
It is half of a hundred –
A number that is labelled
Separately than all others,
A symbol, a century, and
Fifty is half a century,
And so, I choose to write
Fifty random poems in
One challenging month,
And now, I write my fifty.

Dating a Succubus

She dresses in a lavender magical love potion,
Its fragrances deludes my dreamy raving mind,
Rings, necklaces, and bracelets glowing around,
Her black vivid eyes dart into my trembling heart,
Golden silky garments in many lines and curves,
The relic she now closes and my senses are back,
Fear strangles my palpitating heart into a knot,
Her snaky smirk hisses its tongue into my ears,
What she wants – what she asks is something
That goes against the morals of being a human,
She takes out her spidery black hands and goes
For my heart, for my throat, and my naïve eyes.

A Child’s Game

Raise your level of imagination,
To that of a child building those
Blocks of letters, stacking them,
With that contagious tiny smile,
He might get absorbed into the
Colours and use that to solve a
Problem that he himself might
Have created, but he will feel
A challenge with exhilarating
Rush of emotions once logical
Reasons permits him to finish,
Or he might endure one more
Rule of his own creation where
The edges of perfectly-shaped
Letter cubes should be aligned,
Or not, as it depends on his brain
Waves cooperating with his heart
To beat for a vibrant self-portrait,
Here, creativity was explored with
A bunch of wooden cubes, see,
One might disregard the details to
Conclude that it is ever so boring,
But maybe you just need to raise
Your level of imagination, and
Observe those friendly monsters
Surrounding this child to play with
Him this simple but awesome game.

Two Dimensions

The tongue will not speak up the words
I am willing to share with this bright world.
Time has given a divine accusation to
A crumbling soul: split between two
Dimensions separating the limbs towards
The opposite polar – the nasty negative
And the pure positive – having a go at
My delicate heart burning it to ashes
As the blood boils the magnificent mind
Into accepting the fate of its bodily
Joints to get twisted beyond repair.
There I typed it since the tongue is still
Not brave enough to free its twists tangled
Between two very different worlds; each
Going through an enormous phase of
Continuous collisions. This begets an
Aspect of life lived for the lies of others;
Only hesitation would creep into
Mine as I put on an act for an audience
Deemed to become a mirage. But since
The mask is a bit crooked, loosening it
Is the only option, so I try to take it off,
But then my world would disintegrate
Below the earthly dust and form a
Massive grave that I would just have
To voluntarily (in pain) crawl into.

Branches to Snap

Little have I known about the
Depravity of a soulless branch,
The one that hangs its own
Head out of an ancient tree,
Loosely swerving left and right,
Storytellers around the world
Gather for a memorial service,
Serviced by the intellectuals
Of my distorted modern era,
And surely, I have noticed the
Absence of many immaturely
Malicious minds of many men,
Eyeing my crooked branch to
Snap beyond conceivable repair,
And let the storms ride over
The hunchbacks of these
Desolate Times of history,
The results of which is a
Sacrificial ritual to fiercely
Burn the ashen hearts of
Our Sun and our Moon,
And to beget another form
Of amorphous tree void of
Any symbolic growing letters,
Yet, its mountainous branches
Will feed on other crooked
Soulless ones like mine,
A repetitive scene that
Little have I known to
Have ever existed before.

Self-Study

Erase your annoyance over gullibility,
Remove the engrained hooks placed
To bait Time out of their praying souls,
Little preys to your predatory behaviour,
Empty hands quivering at the necessity
Of appreciating charitable giving of the
Goodness of this life and the hereafter,
A story about the return after exodus,
Ancestors tearful for the odd escape,
Something that foretold the encasing
Desolation and the purposelessness
Of your habitual soulless cold life,
Consequences of hesitant beats of
The heart would crumble your mind
Into cries of repetitive annoyance,
So, stop and seize your soul into
An empty room for a moment of
Total silence and a bit of cogitation.

L.W. Battleship

It hasn’t been a week,
And my mind evaporates
Its cellular power to
Empower organic drums
Reaching the ends of
The universe for just
One reason;
One purpose:
One person.