I am Slain

I am slain! O! I am slain!

On eves I am slain by the rumbles and chains.

The presence of others, the noisy streets.

I am slain by the dirt and stains.

The thick muffled air, the bottle of arsenic.

Slain by this city so marvellously scenic.

All I devour, none I desire.

A dog’s bark alerts a cat very tired.

Let the waves come! Let me drown!

I cannot ask for this pitiful crown.

A song of the Buddha, a fairground’s maple.

Too much for my frail skeletal heart.

The world of mirrors and the world of dreams,

waking from the senses is a most skilful art.

Published in: on 31/12/2014 at 11:45 PM  Comments (1)  

Beyond Darkness

A weary soul, a child’s joy,

the end of the desert where hope lies.

The goddess of serenity he finally sees,

yet behind her dress darkness hides.


The sky turns burgundy, and thunders roar.

A heart that trembles, eyes that implore.

With a final will, he stands in the storm.

The finale begins, yet, his heart is torn.


No more can he resist, the darkness encloses.

Wounded and sick on a bed of red roses.

The air smells thick, a spirit decays.

Beyond melancholy his voice prays.


Near dark his music begins,

sweet and solemn yet no one hears.

Most delicate his senses, fragile his defences.

Flowers he grow, with blood and tears.

Those flowers fade, in a winter night.

A summer’s sun cannot bring him light.


Beyond darkness few travellers return,

for the edge of darkness is the gate of hell.

A traveller’s mind in darkness learns,

nothing but the coldness in which he dwells.

A broken path, shattered words

In a whirlpool I fell with a remorseful curse.

Beyond darkness I lost all senses.

The mirage of heaven, distant fences.

A candle light, I walk on.

Beyond emptiness, a bitter song.

Published in: on 14/12/2014 at 7:40 PM  Leave a Comment  

Desert of Ice

Silence, a being most mesmerising.

Silence, an uncertainty most torturing.

A long fermata too long for a weakening soul.

The affairs for its existence I do not hold.

My heart wears a cloak, of diamond, of stones.

Little do they know, most frail I walk alone.


A broken string lashes a tender heart.

Uncertainty tortures a lover in the dark.

Bring me the hemlock! Dear old sir.

I shall pay you my life, it’s worth a little stir.

What good is this world, for thee, for me?

A bird that may not fly broods in agony.


Yet you are there, O my blessed pearls.

Forgetfulness is a virtue, a journey on which we embark.

Forgive me my heart, those wistful curls.

Music is my being, being human is my art.

Your presence enchants, your form serenades.

I am lost in your voice, in your silent days.


Ghosts are but the hauntings of the past.

Regrets are but the seeing of ghosts.

Valses in the rain, a weary soul is cast.

A letter I have written, arrived in your post.

Yet still the fogs whirl, there is much grief in doubts.

I cannot comprehend the coldness of your heart.


Yet here the finale comes, without courtesy.

I plead thee, my final word for your mercy.

How pitiful my mean! How loathsome my being!

You are my deity, yet in the dark I am unseen.

Thus my words lie, and my voices feeble.

My eyes sing to you, of an yearning so fiery.

In dreams in memories, you were kind and gentle.

How had this became a place so weary?

Au revoir, my dear, sorry for a parting so grim.

My love for you persists, when the sun grows dim.

Published in: on 13/12/2014 at 11:11 AM  Leave a Comment  

Darkness is Beautiful

My poems are not so sweet, nor do they sing any happy notes.

In festive seasons my heart sinks, trapped in a whirlpool of woe.

Words words words will always lie, from the feet to the head in a tower of blight.

Pompous gestures with every jest, words run dry under a candle light.

Published in: on 06/12/2014 at 11:53 PM  Leave a Comment  


Light untamed is blinding; darkness unchained is confusing.

The fear of irrationality renders one irrational.

The clinging onto wisdom makes one a fool.

Difficulty stands not in your path towards the summit, but in your homeland where you may no longer find home.

Impossibility lies not in achieving purity, but being extra ordinary.

The curse of thinking summons an illness that cannot be undone.

The loss of the very means with which one may be lost cannot return, unless,

one denies one’s very own identity.

Published in: on 04/12/2014 at 11:25 AM  Leave a Comment