I Am the Messiah come
to deliver me--
I have come to pass.
Mine own Messiahship  reaches
hand and foot into a
Heaven and Hell.
I have come to pass exponentially,
I Am with me.
I Am breath entranced to breathe...
by a breathing air.
I Am the air of breathing air--
I Am not the fear of a body--
I wear it well.
I Am within, without me--
I have come to pass
exponentially.
I Am with me.

There's a vine shaped as lightning--
grapes bittersweet, supple...come to it,
each an epiphany.
Crushed, their red skin lets out juice,
life-yield.
Sealed up and put away...the body knows
its blood, wine-empurpled, crimson throb.
At the wrists, at chest, at temples, at neck.
A synchronized pulse keeps in touch,
batting wings.
It is love that's prepared...to move what's
been born of it.
Embodied to embody--there you are my love.
In shock we've been sutured One.
A forever downed to earth, to imbibe drunken
passion--to keep the body from falling over
lest by love.
No cusp more steady than two lips touching
tale--an Edenic one.
Yet--the more we juxtapose bodies, something
ruptures--hands go wild to clutch that ******.
In shame we block the parts that entered
one another so freely.
Shadows are broken light--love can be
prodigiously cruel, but who among us has heart
to expel such cruelty?
Thusly...the heart drinks deep...to benumb.

When you left it was hard to see through the vapour that was left by your soul,

just transient corridors paved with emptiness, echoes of your voice,

staring through windows as if they were mirrors reflecting the spirit within, foreboding, dark skies, rain as cold as my tears

these walls hide your face,  they come alive and ****** the memories away,  mocking in synergy, the fast approaching coldness of the new day

that transient moment between the comfort of night and the rising sun quickens the weeping spirit

we seek the subdivisions of love, whilst hiding in the darkness of despair,  yet when it comes and the countenance is lifted, the hand of the shadow takes away our light.

/
Everyone sat in rows
In the hands of everyone,
Writing his own poetry
They were reading again
Will recite

Then I was a young poet
My poems were formed
By the faces and eyes
Rain stung like
My pen was flowing as wild
As a vigorous stream

In front,
Sitting too many famous poet
Not too aged,
Writing judged
Equal to the hills of Fame
Expanding their scope as the sea
Many ahead of his time
A lot of poetry grew them legend

I will read the poem in front of them
Vibrating my heart and hands,
Throat was dry
Remembering the words of Robert Frost,
"And Miles to go before I sleep"
As if,
Repeatedly I touched
The new Spirit,
The Flame in the body
And the poem that would accelerate

It was a festival
Nothing else
Soundly a great festival of poetry
There so many poets came from
In Country and Abroad

I guessed,
I guessed
I have to recite my own
Should do at least once
Should do at least once

@Musfiq us shaleheen