Ongoing Deprivation of Justice

And I am a furious enraged mountainous storm,
Tied in chains to the depths of ice-capped oceans,
A recent void of an unknown origin belittles me,
Many holes poked into my ancient frozen scales,
No being dared so, except, a miniature called human,
O celestial stars witness the deception of our era,
And woe to the Time where I have to resurface.


The Planet We Protect

A help from earth guardians,
And the summoning rituals begin,
Prehistorical water dragons sound the horn,
For forest beasts to begin the invasion.

A sense of loss engulfs me,
And the lack of words leaves me agape,
Inappropriate mental weather storms
Drive me into a chaotic silence.

And as we live through climatic fumes,
I win few elderly pawns,
Alas, the queen mourns as
The guardians crush our king.

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.

My Resuscitation

Even when I pop the boiling bubbles,
Floating over my blood,
Bomb blasting it into bits and pieces,
Blood bathing this ashen heart,
Ice-filled buckets were added, stirred,
As if preparing a refreshing lemonade,
Yet, the heart aches into thunderous screams,
And as soon as I start to forget,
The heavens drop storms and devise nightmares,
Nullifying the colourful floral dreams,
Dreams once filled with glittering unicorns,
Unicorns galloping freely through rainbows,
Rainbows so magical mystically spreading
Smiles on my straightened lips,
And now I bloom,
Evolve into a butterfly, and indeed,
I have awoken from that darker-than-black abyss,
I am now my own therapist,
Voicing powerful rainbow smiles,
And getting ready for my resuscitation.

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.