Pen; a shamefully legalized sword and
a paper of forced reflections, I am just
a rented massacre frantically walking on a narrow lane,
burdened with ostracized thoughts and glimpses of reality;
denied, I was once told that my words have the power
to change the stagnant and uplift the meek voices,
but I am a fiction; dead, poetry; marginalized,
a novel unheard
for all they wear is white and all I know is to stain.

Every time I hear slogans raised high
piercing the boundless sky, I look for the leader
like my only prosecutor and when laws pass slipping in
through powerful bills, I look for hands writing our
fate for they are the real culprits; these mobs, fights, debates
and laws grazing headlines are the followers of a voice and
one of my faces yearns to become the heir because
I have lust for power,
you see, these two faces; one preaching like a long lost
priest delivering sermons but what I really dwell on is the
other side because I love my strides more than my lips,
you see, this world is just an iceberg of floating tips.

A bitter truth I was once told;
temporary is not just a theory
and I refrain to hold.

Someday, this romanticized body would be sold,
eroded by time; the herculean,
a bitter truth I was once told.

And when chills through slits would make me feel cold;
curse of the aftermath
and I refrain to hold.

I am a mirror laced of temporary gold;
an abandoned child of age,
a bitter truth I was once told.

Numbers; Absolute, dark and bold,
I envy their ascendance
and I refrain to hold.

Difficult for me to uphold
that I am just a point in this magnificent cosmos,
a bitter truth I was once told
and I refrain to hold.

Life sneaks through parallel bars
awaiting awakenings; not of an embodiment
but of souls connecting you and me, strengthening bonds;
family and friends, it peeps through the windows
to admire common happenings yet uncommon;
butterflies skirting the waterfalls, undistinguished colors of
a rainbow, the silhouette of mountains shining in night foam,
refraining to die every season and  just die for once,
to understand the unfathomable beauty and magnificent
doings of nature, to build little by little of every moment
crossing by and not reserve chairs to sit paralysed,
to hold and freeze dramatic awakenings of
summer of 1969.

Two cups lay on the table; one, half empty
and filled the other,

you cannot taste from both for one is
your beauty and the other is its own beauty,

there are spaces to fit herself in her own
body and there is another cup filled up to
the brim,

pour a little in both;
one embraces and the other erases,
one consumes your body and the other
consumes your soul.

Serene silence and slaughtering silence.