This day you left me
And spring lost its flower forever
At early spring, young called never
Again in a low silent day,
I heard the crisping of a lost grasshopper

In a black and white glow dream
Far away from the silky moon sprung
There birds feathers were oping with high delicate
Though Pale petals were losing their pixel with pleasant
But the high divine melody colored the deep purple

Then another high spring fallen to light purple
Yellow flowers bloom on her pale face again
At Night mild murmur cools the heart of the passionate
And the Sunflower rises on the first shines of sun
Melts with a dream after a long winter washed

@ Musfiq us shaleheen

if i was a leaf blower i'd wish you were a stationary bike
so we could be forgotten together in an unused garage

i want to be a candlestick holder if you're a dinette set
so we can dance close under the chandelier in the quiet foyer

i'll be an old stained t-shirt if you're a chest of drawers
and i'll slip inside and live in the back of your heart forever

if you're a tennis ball and i'm a chewed up shoe we can
hide from the dog in the dark under the sofa holding hands

but i am only a rooftop
that you won't lay on
you are a thousand stars
out of reach and too beautiful to
acknowledge
me

Poetry is like spider webs. Each word has so much meaning. A spider prefers to spin its web at night. Maybe this is because thats when they have the most on their minds or when they feel safe.

Each web a beautiful creation. The time it takes to create it and the little appreciation it gets. They say a spider will eat its web when moving on, every poet will eat their words one day.

Cob webs, are webs that have been abandoned and left to die. Our bodies will one day be left to die.

This moment, this one right now, is all we have. We will leave our poetry behind to turn into Cob Webs. Maybe one day a child may stumble across these words and bring them back to life.

Poetry is the most powerful thing we have and we need to give it to everyone. So the next time you see a spider web, appreciate it a little more.

Think of it as, poetry. Something or someone spent a lot of time making it. And put their soul into it. Because what is poetry if not a spiders web in the corner waiting to be realized?

days will not pass
   nights always come
   too late
when you are not with me

the cloud that is not you
hangs over me like fog
   strangely transparent
my senses have grown blunt
for anything that is
   not as intense as us

but people smile at me
and I can talk and act
   it seems
quite normally
   they do not know
   that they are only speaking
   to a friendly shell

my real shadow
is holding yours
in our dreams
until we wake again
   and walk  
into each other’s arms