Low clouds come bustling in
Grumbling about being here again

Driven by the Crack of lightning's whip
Winds whip tugging at your grip

Apprehension comes dragging tension
The Crash-Boom for added demension

Raindrops commit suicide on the glass
Bulging in the panes break at last

Stirred in to added confusion
Missing roof is no allusion

Swirling winds puncture your skin
As the walls become vacant beens

Swept away from your stance
Poor you , you never had a chance

if
you
are
reading
this,

then,

you
aren't
alone.

your
being
-right now-
by virtue of
reading this

is
with
mine;

and mine,
with yours.

and even when
you go

away,
you

are still here,
existing in
my
little
poem,

smeared
light

remnants

rubbing up
against mine.

and even when i go away
after sending this off,
i too will still be here

like you.

all of our weird
written words
penned at a distance are

always connected
by some

strange
residual angle
and spin
emitted,
leftover
from our

small but
eternal

interactions;

alignments of the light which do not discriminate,
nor create hierarchies of strict titanic binaries
that demand and interrogate..

your
big
red
hearts
make my
little grey
lightning bolts

light up:

bright yellow strikes fluoresce

over and
over

and

o v  e    r,

again and again.

your
tiny torch
forever
charging  

me,

even as i
cool off

and

darken,

is much appreciated,
dear poets

of
mine.

Simplicity
Is the
Act of giving shape
To chaos -
An affair of alchemy,
Like turning sweat
Into drops of
Silver.

(c) LazharBouazzi

It sounds
And I am compelled to listen
This is beautiful
Now that I've heard it
There is no turning back
To the point of no return
Experiences pile up
The hold never dissipates
At times it immerses me
And I remain motionless
It sounds, squeezing ***
On its bonds with male
And female on fresh waves