Pink Hibiscus

Nothing ever makes me so curious|
As the sweat that slowly trickles down your neck
Soundlessly supple, a drop of bliss
And I follow every dribble, down as it goes

How you stand up, awkward and unsure
Shoulders a little hunched, head a little bow
As if your arms to you, do not belong
And I follow those movements as they go

Tiny freckles that adore your skin
Little concentrations of melanin
Every spot, that makes you pristine
And I notice each one, and so much more

The houris in high heaven so burn with envy
Of something so riddled with blemishes
Of each dot that paints a whole
And I wish to write a poem on each one and more

Your lips so delicate, so fine, so full
Pink, like hibiscuses​ in bloom
Flowering as your eyes they shine
And I notice that shine, every single time

All desire of men and mer would end
If they were to embrace your lips, in an eternal kiss
An ephemeral dream unlike the  world has dreamt
Something no earthly delight can best

To Become

Tell me this, what does it take to become? The price every man pays, in the currency of the soul. To get so very lost in your own head, to not pay head to what it is that you become.

To be able to break a heart, so gentle, so effortless, that all you hear is distant clink of shattered glass, lost in cacophony of your futile existence. The reverberation of an act that makes heaven sigh in a lone bellow.

To become a creature of an elaborate design. A willful exercise in true malevolence, in guise of free will. An abhorrence, one crafted by ignorance of man, so drunk on the little power he has.

All the makings of true tragedy, of a poison that sets on the faintest of touch, seething deep within, corrupting and yet somehow fails to kill.

A creature devoid of all remorse, faith lost, leaving behind only lingering doubt. Kneeling, to a God that has long since turned away.

The cursed ones, abandoned to a long, cold confinement. Under a blanket of shimmering stars, dull silence that pierces the abyss. The perfection cage of creation, the bane of existence.

A serpentine maze not meant for you. A conscious so riddled with conflicts. Of a soul at war with the mind. The rotting stench of dead flesh, taste of iron over the lips, of the inevitability of an imminent death of spirituality. A shire to defiled sanctity.

We are the architects of nothing. Little seeds, only sown for death to reap. A profound yet entirely meaningless circle of life and pain.

We are what we are, we are what we have become. Our own gods of everything and nothing. Caught in own worship, our own games, unable to solve our own riddles.

So tell me now, what does it take to become? And at what price.

Marooned

marooned

Lost little ships, marooned at the sea

In the distance, a little globe of gold

Not hope enough, yet hope enough to beget hope

 

So we set, with the winds, little vortices in our sail

And at times, a thousand chained salves,

Rowing to sweet escape

 

The waves we resist, brave the elements too

Night darkens further, mist settles, hits the deck

With it, our luminous orb lost

 

In the cold, shivers run, a strange malady strikes

A stench of death looms

The deck swaying to the impending doom

 

Eyes closed, we hear a calling from the deep

Serene, melodiously tunes

Something from the cavernous depths, calls to me

 

Men, ye faithless, shepherdless sheep,

Rocking on the darkness’ tresses

A demon in the deeps

 

Caught in an agony terrible, we lie

Huddled and in wait

In never comes for us, but a show of presence it makes

 

 With its maliciousness, it drives us insane

The golden globe faints in the night sky,

A forbidden fruit, our torment escalates,

 

Suffer ye wretches, forsaken on the ocean folds

With palms nailed, (blood slowly drips)

To a wooden cross

 

Pity unto these meek, the poor and the lost

Caught in a vortex, a sadden drought

They die, dead slow, their youths rot

 

A Dying Sun

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It feels like an eternity has passed since we have sat like this

Basking in silence, no need for things to say

 

With no somber cloud that hangs over our heads

Even as the world mourns, for the sun is dead

 

No more will there be false promises of a dawn anew,

The shimmering darkness, with us, to stay

 

Just you and I, and a realness that can only ever be felt

We have come along so far from the shire’s edge

 

In the cold, aching, latched onto a damp embrace

Under a dying sun kissed sky, as the sun forever sets

 

Unatoned sins, our god has turned away

Forsaken our kin will roam, treading the darkness’ edge

 

Through pained smiles, holding on as eternal night sets

“Woe be onto you, wretched, you’ve killed the sun”

By A Dead Star

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From a simmering void of something less than nothingness, you came about. As it collapsed on itself over and over for a time longer than eternity, forming tiny fragments that would coalesce, in millions of permutations, and within each there was one, the perfect one. 

Every part of you comes from that void. From those scattered fragments, with their randomness, that formed you, as if the conception of the universe was one giant conspiracy, an elaborate scheme only to get to you.

And even as your life is one little moment, one tiny droplet in an ever flowing river of time, yet your being is the embodiment of the universe itself. The perfect universe, with all its nebulas and clusters, with its supernovas, the birth of life and the death of stars and its little darks corners where even light dares not venture, I have seen that all and more in the depth of your iris.

Mi amor, how can you be anything other than beautiful, if the whole universe conspired to bring you here, in our grand plan, bring you to me. Bring you to me nourished by time, yet somehow untouched by it.

You are the living universe, itself, formed in some dying star, perhaps the last splendor of its spent undying beauty.

All your little curiosities, your tiny blemishes, your imperfections, lay them bare, for they are all you, all your intricacies, your delicacies; they are your everlasting perfection. Every little blotch is right where it is supposed to be, the dark under your eyes, the very curvature of your smile, the hair all messed up. Never was it a random occurrence, it was all meant to be, down to the very last freckle. It was always meant to be.

You are an art of the Maker, ma vhenan. Like the deep oceans, or the vast skies, like the burning stars, the sun and the serene sweetness of Selene. A wonder of nature, so very intricately put together for men to adore.

And with your voice your weave a spell, a mellow disturbance, like you know how to charm the air itself, and with which, all of it comes singing to life, just the right amount of chaos every time.

There are days still when I want nothing more than to roam around your porcelain skin, I feel a part of me came from those same fragments of a star that wants to be whole again.

To breathe you in like incense, a fading whiff, for once to drink the very madness that you are and that you bring.

To have my hot lingering breath fall  upon the Goosebumps that erupt on  the edges of your skin, so you are only real at places I feel.

For a moment, a spectral star come back to life, as I imprint you with my and mine.

So the etches I leave on the the curves of your neck, are nothing more than a painful reminder of a forgotten star that now lays dead.

The Last of Him

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WARNING: This fictional story involves suicide. I have been told it’s very triggering. Be warned. And know that if you commit suicide because of this, I’ll find you in afterlife and slap the shit out of you. Life is beautiful, guys.

Love, Zaid.

It had been a while since the last time he had felt like this. Suddenly so were unsure of everything. He loved how he kept a façade that he was always in control of everything, always so very sure of himself. He didn’t know if it were a victory or not, that he had slowly begin to believe and love the lie he had himself built. It was for this reason that when this bout of sadness hit him, it hit him harder than it had ever before.

He was alone, and now he was very aware of it.

Taking off his covers, he sat up, on the edge of his bed, feet on the cold floor. The window was open and the cold night breeze fluttered in, and his whole body erupted with goosebumps, illuminated under the moonlight that too came through the very same window. Outside in the night, a hundred thousand diamonds shined in the sky, little balls of fire, too far away to be of any significance, yet still there, pestering, bathing him in their light, refusing to leave him alone, very much like his sadness.

He rubbed his messy beard, partly because it itched, and partly because it brought him a mild reprieve from his wandering thoughts. He heard his shoulder muscles crack from the movement  as if he hadn’t used them in ages, and immediately looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. He had been asleep for more than a day.

As he came to grips with the sorry state he was in, hung over, naked in bed, famished, he realized he had come far from the man she had loved and this shook him. He knew he had changed, and for the worse. Very aware of his own metamorphosis as he became more attuned with world’s image of what he should be, never realizing until now that he had become less and less of what she had loved ,and loved with a love that so very close to something hallow.

The worst part of it was the knowledge. The knowledge that if given the chance he would make all the wrong choices, all over again, all the things he regretted in that moment of vile weakness, he would do them and love them as much as he loved them the first time around. The monster he had become was no accident; it was a very clear choice. A stroll down a path that he took knowing full well what he would become at the end of it. This brought him a cruel satisfaction which in turn fueled his angst. He loved what he had become and he hated himself for it.

The confidence returned, this would be remembered as the moment he was the weakest but it didn’t feel that away at all. His vigor came back to him, there was wildness in his eyes. He felt turned on for some reason, and powerful, immensely powerful.

Taking one’s own life, taking away one’s destiny from the hand of fate, the act of ultimate freedom, of the ultimate defiance, of such sweet escape; he didn’t feel weak at, he felt strong. He closed his palms and felt a surge of energy run through his body. The wild wind bustled, whistling past his ears. He stretched the muscles in his back, making himself big and it brought elation like nothing ever had.

He removed the gun from the nightstand. It had to be this way; anything else was either not be too direct or would be too risky. He had to end it with his own hands. The metal felt so cold and foreign, and heavy in his hands and on his forehead as he placed the barrel there.

Each second passed in an eternity, like he was caught up in a time warp. Those little moments as he pressed the trigger and felt a hot surge of gun powder erupt on his skin. In those moments he saw everything, and knew it was true that your whole life does indeed play in front of your eyes as you die. It was even before the bullet pierced him, his body had already accepted the impending death, it had accepted it and rejoiced in it and in his last moments he saw her.

In a field of flowers he saw her, laughing, surreal as if out of a very real dream. She looked every much as beautiful as he remembered her to be. Her brown eyes, with their sheen and their kindness and that tiny tinge of uncertainty, he saw her as if she were there. In a long white dress, her hair flowing in wind as she smiled at him, eye lashes fluttering at him. In his last moments as the burn of the gunpowder were soothed with his warm blood, he once again felt whole. Felt like the man she had loved, and there on his bed, he died a happy man, though people would say it was the sadness that killed him.

Melancholy

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I know you are here. Somehow I have always known, now merely very aware of your tormenting presence. A very real conviction that you are the one thing that will exist, even if everything else I know were to prove a vivid hallucination of a very sick mind. 

You are a reflection against a solid reef, a thing of soothing disquiet, something which should not exist by natural law. An Abhorrence, a thing of godlessness, of abandonment of faith.

Right there, in my throat, your presence haunting every aspect of what I am. A tiny etching onto me, a cursed, festering wound that refuses to heal up or even go a little numb. A forgotten sensation like an old lover’s warmth, every part of me and still the bane of my existence.

Like a piece of me missing, and something more still, which completes me, leaving me worse than what I was incomplete.

Yet you are not a thing of evil, for I wish beyond anything for you to be that.

Sweet melancholy: a creation of passion, of lust, of rawness of humanity, of beauty, of such utmost, such terrible beauty.

The beauty of dying rose tore off and left to wither so very slowly. The world’s slowest death sentence, so painfully and elaborately adorned.  Mellifluous aroma of loitering death that is somehow so very succulent.

The tiny tinge of sadness at end of every smile every smiled.

Of the sparkle in the eyes of the one you love, still there as life leaves them and a twisted smile creeps up at the edge of their lips. Nightshade, a kiss of death.
Of beauty you are it stems from you… and you claim with me with every breath I take, as I give into your cold grip, so very willingly.