As the days now dawn
Without a rising bliss
Life is but a meaningless walk
Upon a dusty road
Of man’s own madness
In search of mysticism
To belittle the Creator

Surely, the prophets do die
But their prophesies do not lie
They come to pass at last
The earth quivers beneath
The sun consoles with a burning shade

For hell’s mouth is ready
Its hour looms in at last
Some Christens seek their God now
With due supplications
Others drink booze and more booze

my soul lost its memory
in blood a voice without ears
kneaded in the bread of Al Badar
plowed into the graves of 10,000 chickens
it is nothing to not exist
it is not Palestine
fathers have no hands here
mothers no eyes to hold tears
the mask covers the faces
in this nigger nobody dream
bound without hands to the earth
spilled out like a toxic red crayon
the liquid spills of incendiary skin
perhaps bits of cloth, a finger
is left to point the way to the holy city

foreground in silence
a breathless day
while the sun rises a mile away

a new jacket speaks
the leather voice
tiny passions in cold air

camera full of black and whites
your letters written
nothing trite

and how it is we concur
our addiction to this
blur
the strangers in the glass
ask seeking
why all the leaving
I move more towards

then against

hungry for everything
we shall not have
sated for nothing
that is all ours

Of Poetry!

Well to my semi dwarfed mind
without knowing the nuances
of concoction of poetry,
save verbal criticism
I feel the power of sharing
what one knows
or deems to know,
with ones brethren