Beneath the waves

Now summer nights have been fulfilled,
the winter wind brings icy chill,
and in the dark of what was day,
brings with it something far from thrill.

The finest woven plans are frayed,
but held so firm just yesterday.
I lean upon the window sill
and search for light as evening fades.

The sky has lost its night decór
that shone so brilliant days before,
and silence drones with awful din;
a soundless breath, a midnight’s roar.

But I’ll hold tight to turtle-fin
and dive beneath this world we’re in,
for hope has sunk to ocean floor;
it’s weighted down with hate and sin.

Tide of lust

The lustful man may seek true love
and find none but dead flowers’ stems.
Oblivious and innocent
are men who find the sweetest rose.

Aesthetic greed lies in the eyes
of those who’ll find fake love will blind.
Whilst those with sight shall see the light
and be engulfed by passion’s flame.

There are some who wear a ring,
a matching girl upon their sleeve.
But ‘tis the man with naked truth
who wears none but life’s finest weave.

For lust itself is like a tide,
and draws in those who’re yet to find
the vessel known to sail upstream;
guided by love, powered by dreams.

Trail of thought

I cannot think
to whom this odes,
nor do I care,
they’ll never know.
The light is low,
and in this air
my life is slow,
I cannot think.
The reason fair,
my mind doth groan,
I cannot think,
it’s blank as snow.
My life is slow,
I cannot think.
The light is low,
the reason fair.
I cannot think
to whom this odes,
nor do I care,
they’ll never know.


Can we miss what has never been possessed,
or be content with having all the wealth?
Is love a lie to which we must confess?
Can we be inspired by inspiration itself?

Can we mourn what has not yet come to die,
or leave before we have even arrived?
Can we be proud enough to save our pride?
Of what’s not known, can we be deprived?

The play

Alone in the dark, I write
as I dwell on thoughts into the night.
The world, my stage.
My life, the play.
The moon, my spotlight.

I perform to all who wish to see;
my solo act, myself and me.
There’s no applause,
no chants or roars.
My mood, the scene.

The lines I speak cannot be heard
by ears that listen alone for words.
The length unknown.
Its pace, my own.
The theme, absurd.

The performance, it continues still,
‘till suns don’t burn and looks can kill.
I know no more.
My future, unsure.
The play, my will.

The last Summer evening

God’s palette, it seemed,
had not much to spare,
for the sky was painted a monotone blue.
All through the trees,
was a still, silent air,
standing in wait like a crowd for the Tube.

They all hung like towels on a rail,
stood like guards at the gate.
They whisper with their leafy tongues
to let me know it’s getting late.

The bird houses now vacated
as summer bids farewell.
But my smile will not be faded
so long as I’ve stories to tell.