To My Offspring

I just wrote an encrypted letter,
Layered with seven coding systems,
Then I rolled it for a forgotten era,
Picked up a green ribbon for a knot,
A clear glass bottle for transportation,
And a sea for an unknown itinerary,
Forty-six months without a reply,
Trapped in a dimensionless time,
Awaiting the whispers of an angel,
Voices of my ancestry start to tremble,
The return of our long-lost kingdom was
But a mirage in a servant’s mind,
The forest trees have burnt,
The valleys became arid wastelands,
Scorching heat and starless nights,
And all I could wish for was the comfort in
Lying over our forefathers’ graves,
Keeping an eye for the falcon’s shadow,
In hope for a living, for a resurrection,
For some powerful force to guide the
Bottled letter through the nine oceans,
But it is my time to bid you farewell, Offspring.

Advertisements

Protect You, I Will

Whisper to me,
Interrupt my vision,
In euphoria,
Emotional trance,
A heart’s utopia,
Hands wrap around,
Bodies buried within,
Harmonious collisions,
Self-portrait unmasked,
Bloodshot eyes,
Ragged clothes,
Wounded mind,
Scarred knuckles,
Fading into loud sirens,
Shadows gathering,
Few coming into focus,
Gravity seems powerful,
Time is out of reach,
Hopelessness conceived,
Soldier resurrected.

The Figure and Her

Like a perfect morning Spring breeze,
Like a rare galactic celestial star,
Like an iron heart beating for a lost twin,
Mesmerising momentarily in greater depth,
At a figure, she paints from the unknown,
A mixture of shadows, a masterpiece, a landscape,
For her to soar, like a bird,
For her to cherish, like a treasure,
For what life brings her, like this figure,
And so, it starts to dance to her smiles,
Stargazing at her beating heart that twinkles afar,
And in turn, she snows nearby landing on its cheeks,
Hearing its whispers as she silences the world,
For seven hours straight, the figure is her all,
For many more at night, she is its delicate soul,
Without her, the figure is emotionless,
The son of a concerned mother,
The brother of a proud sister,
The aging father of a little girl,
To it, she becomes the definition of home,
A place to hold onto and to always return,
A shelter to its heart, a constellation to its mind,
An ongoing novella depicting the merging of souls,
Linguistically phenomenal as both start to realise,
A preface of dubbed barriers to never lose a translation,
A chapter of tones to reach complete perception,
And yet, a different chapter consumes all emotions,
Like a breeze that comes and goes,
Like a shooting star nowhere to be found,
Like a heart that switches to a highborn,
The plot thickens and the twist befalls,
A heavenly meeting was decreed for a resolution,
Three decades holding onto nomadic tents,
Leaving few years thinking to never come back,
And yet, this figure, out of nowhere comes back,
Part of the desert, earthly merged for eternity,
For what reasoning this soul comprehends
Is beyond the logical laws of a galactic universe,
The figure and her are just a story of a great return.

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.

The Magician’s Demise

The magician casted a spell on the
Beautiful Moon at the darkest hour
Of the longest night of this old year,
With his tall top hat and a ravenous
Empty smile he backed away casing
His crooked back by a violet cape,
As he jumped into the shadows of
Dodgy side alleys with his lengthy
Golden staff the Moon resisted,
Afraid that his identity might be
Revealed the magician tried to live
Under the shields of Earth’s crust,
But the buckets of love reversed
The spell by the Earth and poured
Hours of agony onto the magician,
Ever since that moment at the
Darkest hour of the longest night
Of this old year the Moon sang:
Je t’aime de tout mon coeur.

The Two Lads

The old lad and the not-so-old young lad
Started to walk together by the beach,
One had a stick and the other sunglasses,
The night swallowed the rays of lightness,
And crows would appear from the horizon –
Extremely distant that the two lads found
It excruciatingly painful to stare at, and so,
One of them sat on the snow-covered
Deserted unscathed wooden bench that
Was genetically engineered to survive
This apocalyptic world of many shadows,
The old lad went to his pockets and
Spread his palms out where seeds laid
There: warm, still, and totally silent,
The not-so-old young lad was extremely
Observant and stood firm in a great pause,
What he saw was something magical
Where extinct small birds and huge
Pelicans would soar high encircling
Those seeds, but the darkness changes
The beach and a whistling sound alarms
The two lads where they immediately
Walked along the coast in calmness,
One had a stick and the other sunglasses,
The old lad and the not-so-old young lad.

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.