demise not by my pen
paint you righteous,
the writer that writhes ink to fire
setting fevers to skin and soul.

Let me paint
the sacredness
of your naked Soul.
I promise
each brushstroke will contain
your Beautiful Truth.

Bodies are like poems, only a fraction of their power resides in the skin of things. Remainder belongs to the spirit that swims through them.

I wake
to an inky night
paper beckoning with
white angel wings
waiting windsail words
I fly to meet my thoughts.

You and Insomnia

slitting my mind
so thoughts of you 
bleed from memory
into reflective pools 
where
i float my
hopes

An incomplete poem

I waited for you,
in the eerie midnight -
Stretching my arms
Unto the ephemeral dreams.

I waited for you
In the seconds,
of sickness and intensity
and i sweat to the freezing winds.

I waited for you
In my damaged poem,
Where words stammered
for uneven breaths.

I waited for you
Beside the moon,
with other lone stars.
But
it outflowed me
cimmerian light and then left.

I waited, and prayed for you
to come and look at me
the clock stopped,
phone yawned.

But still,
I waited for you
With my yearning eyes
that cease to gleam.

I waited for you
Standing by the alphabets.
Making secret anagrams.

I waited for you
While my poem turned to wine,
vains to icy coils and
night to frozen coffee.

I waited for dreams,
and for you.
an Azan answered my
both questions.

I waited for you,
your words and chuckles.
but
the foggy morning
and sleepy eyes
asked me to hear
the ending lines of my poem.
But still,

I am waiting for you
In the midst of
these saffron and sandalwood trees,
in my weird dream.
listening to this bird
singing gazals of tranquility.

and I keep waiting
only for you.

Paper wings

There are times when
I think it would be best
To fold away these paper wings
To abandon the words
I used to give so easily So freely,like the smile of a child
There are times when
my feathers fall like dirty snow
Marred by my thoughts and tears and tainted blood
Torn by my failures
shortcomings Plucked away and stolen by hurtful, petty things
There are times when
I do not see beauty
My eyes close, and I,
ignorant and selfish
Forget to feel joy
at the miracle of sunlight on
my skin cease to exult
in the glory of my tiny existence.
There are times when
I think it would be best
To fold away these paper wings But I always spread them wide
again, remembering with love
The sweet freedom of my flight.