We write our history with footsteps.

Blindly,
We rarely read in between the lines.
Hope is there,
Indelibly, invisibly, inked;
Blood red,
Between every page
of
pain & glory.


~ QB

I held a Mother in my arms,
With love
&
tears of mournful abandon,
Watching as she passed to paradise.
In time,
I heard a Father’s breath of silence;
His silver cord too, shredded.

Oh my soul!

We have been force fed a lie;
That real men don’t cry?
for it is written;
“and Jesus wept.”

A son shouldn’t search such unsearchable sorrow...
But it's right that children bury their parents,
&  
Not the other way around, a painful truth;
our caretaker's are now in the ground.


How long before sunshine’s healing rays
Dissipate this institute of grief?
&
When will the Son rise?

(G-d have mercy on us all.)


~  © Qwey.ku

Sorrow is too painful a Master;
I must resign his employment.



© Qwey.ku

The shortest distance
between pain and peace,
[between what is
&
the fruitfulness of the morrow]
is a rugged shortcut;
an unattractive narrow path
gated small,
signposted;
travail  &  obedience.

A steep elevation,
hewn of solid rock;
an ancient Roman road,
weathered,
yet
* traveled few.*


Pay mind to where you tread.
Be walked conditioned fit.
&
Foremost,
relinquish all your baggage.


© Qwey.ku

There is a reason why
Love
&
Hate
never friend...

They try to visit on force of occasion,
but blindly
pass
like lone
ships
in the stiff dead of night.

They
create
such

a haunting divide;

an ebb

&

wake
of salty foam.

An eerie vacuum...

a sense & state of pregnant airs' taste

...a forever's of fleeting tranquility.


**© Qwey.ku