She's in the kitchen
(close the door)
just mixin' up some metaphor;
a true conundrum
through and through
and through to me and thus to you.

Her humble hunger
(forest's slumber)
thunders 'neath a wilting tune;
tuned to too many
to count without
a thought within.

She must profess
(but shall confess)
to any who will listen;
closely she holds
a tragic history
mostly mystery to most.

She solves my soul
(I deny that hole)
which she still fills;
overflowing always
with such unrelenting joy
that is My Love.

Why do men turn babye?
And babye turn boyes?
It better for a women
To use toyes.

~
Try to forget!
But even for a moment, I couldn't
Lost myself in the colorful days,
But Comes back again and again

In the beach seems not at comes back to the
Appears as the illusive silhouette
Comes back again to the shade of trees,
At the rolls along a curve of path
Space between thoughts,
Among the laps of forgotten days

To get back to the rhythm of life,
In the dialectics of stone and emotion
Among the mistakes,
When to walk alone in the dark

In the Joy,
In the hopeless romance
In the morning sun,
Even after the end of the day when gone

Any valentine song that comes to sudden evening
When the juncture of poetry in the transition
In the morning tune of birds ,
Even as the floating autumnal white clouds in the sky

Comes back with the thirst of words
In the Lust, anger, huff  
With the whispering of fallen dry leaves of spring
Again in dreams as my most beloved

Comes back with the feelings of happiness
Unfortunately the rain undertone of pain
The hope of getting beyond the horizon
Either in the territory of the infinity

Yet try to forget!
But even for a moment, I couldn't
~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

She floats just above the ground
whenever visitors decide to come around
from room to room she roams
when she's feeling all alone
and, she longs for the laughter that once was --
that echoed up and down her halls
her children are all gone with time and, distance
its made her spirit ache it's been so long
there's the sound of a ticking clock
(tick, tick, tock)
reminding her of a half knitted infants sock
where she remembers leaving it before she left
Oh, and she'd cry if she had any tears
but all she has is her ghost house year after year...
where she roams from room to room
(waiting, always waiting)
waiting for her children to come home soon.

shadows of distant knowledge
   vaguely unfamiliar
eluding shapes
   never redeemed
crowd suddenly
   and make a whole

   instantly gone

          * *