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Tuesday, February 1, 2011



Who here will cry for me? When dusk comes, and bells toll for me?

Who will weep? Not crocodile tears, but true springs of sorrow?

When for me, the decree is of no tomorrow

When angels tug at the sleeves of my heart,

Who will dare to see me depart?

None will dare, for man dies alone

Gasping for air, when all are gone.

Tearing their clothes, of sorrow they boast

Swearing by deities that they loved me most

In death will live, what in life, was a ghost

For in their hearts, love had no host.


I don’t have time to grow,

I don’t want to leave here right now,

It isn’t lack of care or know-how,

For to grow would mean to leave this place,

To drop that ace, from a familiar sleeve,

As sleeves make room, for other sleeves,

For if I grow, then I grow,

Into that which I don’t know.

And grow by worth of the tears I know,

And grow by grit of the scars that show, like stitches in seams, which grow,

Like stitches in seams, which grow,

Joining to mark the path of growth,

For it’s only through pain that I know I grow,

As pain’s a beautiful story, with a map to show,

By scars upon my essence, just how I grow.

So do I have time to grow?

To let my feelings show? And let my heart know?

That, he who dares, does grow,

And he who cares to, does know,

That comfort shelters faint hearts,

And fair ladies don’t go,

Where men don’t wear, their hearts on their sleeves.


At sunlight, I present myself before the shimmering shower,

Of morning light cascading, and impaling the window’s glass,

And spilling my essence, into my shadow.

With warm embrace, it seeks my roots,

In the earth that feeds my marrow.

Cool winds that whisper above my cradle,

Raise the dust of fathers afore.

And a wafting scent of yester-yore,

Feeds, and fuels nostalgia,

That takes to heart, a life of its own, like men of smokeless fire.


Pain, makes beautiful, the fruit of labour,

Just like the agony of souls,

Is the birth of a savior.

Let not the bridge of sighs beget a saint.

For every aesthetic high,

Blood and tears mix the paint.

And every stroke of cosmic brush,

Paints a view, of strong and faint.


This pen is green,

Not just any green, but royal green.

A green of the lushest sheen.

Neither loud green, nor mean green,

But one both seen, and unseen.

Green as the jungle to which,

One look from you confounds my heart.

Green as the abundance that,

Bleeds a meadow from every part.

Green as the presidents will,

Signed on articles of state.

Like locusts before whom all greens mutate,

Transformed to a barren state.

A state akin to the dying embers of,

My heart bereft of your touch.

Green as the smouldering promise of paradise,

That I witness in your eyes.

And if we part ways, the promise,

Dies a green death.

Green with envy, at the places you grace,

That are not my presence.

And at every man who sees you,

But is not of my essence.

Green, just like this pen.

For this pen is green, just ordinary green.

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