Winds, whistles
now all is quiet
paint-brush, sea
your lips moving
speaking nothing
your hands
expressive as ever
my words
causing a *****
by your feet
cluttering, cracking
as you step away

there is no noise
no chirps of the city
no tales of sleep
I run but the running
leads to nothing
I run not to run
or to reach;
perhaps to move
or to cause to move

But the movement
makes no change
the heart is far
the hands grasp each other
like mourning women
the sun is empty
the sky is full of it
houses reek of its reticence
and the people
are out of talks

summer is cold
white, dim, dusty and damp
the pages crinkle like cloth
and when I look up
you are headless

just shoulders, neck, arms
torso, legs
a presence, but
no voice
I speak, I cannot hear
You crumble
I crouch to collect
but I can grasp
at the quiet only

She holds the
moon in her eyes.
His eyes hold
the sea.

Her beauty enchanting;
casually, she'd make
him cry if she
pleased.

Witches worship her aura.
Wolves bowl, howling.

She knows she is magic.

Every human feeling is a raw work of poetry.

Some just want to prove
they are  Right and not wrong.

Some want to be unique
To be noticed in a crowd.  

Some just keep quite
Blaming everyone for their plight.

Some just impose.
Either by love or by force.

Some simply dont care
And move on and on.

Some exploit others
For their own gains.

Some just observe
And wonder what is to be done.

Enough is Enough
When this will be end.

There’s a shadow

Poking at my thigh

Trying to take attention

Away

From my mind

Not to reality

But somewhere unrefined

And Opposite of divine

Can you hear it call out

Sideways in time

Three different perspectives

Of the same scene

And

Their all upside down nines