Your dying heart

Your dying heart has caved in ,
in to the gorge of my swallowing pain,
your dying heart has caved in today.
The beat at its thump in my chest,
the blood as it froze in my breast,
time was your trusted test,
it gave in today.

Your dying heart has caved in today
into a gorge of my swallowing pain,
there's a river I say I know
it floods the rocks, then storming its way.
and discreetly still it does flow,
off the land of  mortals,
secretly it paved in today.

Your dying heart caved in today,
into a gorge of my swallowing pain
You dark befallen darkness I curse
You shard of glass you broken ceramic
I cut on you my bones and veins
and they crushed and whirled in to the drain,
of your deep sinking rabbit hole.
and then your dying heart caved in with them.

What is left of me I wonder,
I was long dead and now I am plundered
of that dying heart that caved in today.
now,there is no gorge of swallowing pain.
My dying love is still dying.

Silence is...

mistaken to be a weakness and never seen as endurance. But is endurance only for the gullible and weak? I often wonder,

sought as a resort from the jarring madness that words are.Exorbitant vacations in the most exotic of locations can not match up to the respite from the need of conversation or mindless talk to keep up with the social pressure of networking.But is solitude only for the introspecting? I often wonder.

the laboratory of a mad genius and the perfect stillness that is before the most revolutionary of experiments are stirred in thought and then expressed.But is isolation only for the madmen? I often wonder.

the offence of a lone wanderer when the world calls to join in its material revelry and then blazes at them the sounds synthesized by echo in the hollow spaces that resound in pluralism of the crowd.But is the wilderness only for the fakir? I often wonder.

the indifference of a cynic when misplaced activism is eating into its own purpose by meddling with the jammed up cogs of the structure and in turn destroying what is left of them or empowering them by oiling their churning to be crushed under the implications.But is reason only for a philosopher to ponder?I often wonder.

the medium I chose to express what I can not put in words, it is heavy, it is meaningful , it is a pause, a much needed one. My words can be undermined my silence never taken for granted. But is silence only for the shaken, the broken, the suppressed and the cowards.You will know of what I often wonder.

Filthy Hands

My bare hands and I,
we leave prints around ,
One is the dot, the sun's eclipse spot.
another a cross mark on the ground.

I cut my fingers on barbed wire,
have burnt fate's lines in the fire,
and then dyed them in black or red,
for graffiti or simply bled.
bled from self,sometimes of other
and to cleanse them have I never bothered.

The earth in nails from the potters wheel
and the glass from mosaic on the walls
embedded in souls of my palms

like time frozen in instance of build

and the places where they have crawled.

They have folded themselves in
contemplation.
what  is thought and prayer at times.
They have held back in consideration

at others they have crossed the line.

They have given in dread of mistrust
and taken by a sincere thrust.
they have rested on a restless heart
and then stopped it in a clench  of fist
they have rubbed a temple in subdued thought
and then coaxed it to not resist.

they have held a warm body,cold and clinical

they have traced passion on beautiful forms

and have synchronized with tidal storms

cured the cold faces with their warmth,

in either my desire or their want

they have held and let go not for long.

fidgety devils in indecision

gods in rights of their precision.

my filthy hand will wash off one another.
my filthy hands will wash off one another.

The Nulliparous Romance.

Why is it that a stark love can yield nothing but an anomaly to its own nature?
That upon yielding in its fruitful terms the most prolific perish to being barren, when nurtured  by the wholesome ?
Certainly the fruit of the womb could be bitter in its nature but why shrivelled? Should love and its consequential die as such,unborn? A disowned love child forsaken buy its bearer.