Friday, August 26, 2011


When will these voices inside stop listening? 
Keep a turn to the rusted spring, a ruffled winter 
quenches not thirst of feathered innocence

The mirror has a hidden face, memories of centuries 
and painted dreams will not reveal the shades of ash 
laden stink of twisted minds 

So gently amble in the corner of the dark, touch 
not the tears of the fog, will you confront the 'I'
quivering and trembling as the one who never 
wrote this poem? 

Friday, August 12, 2011


All around me a sea of noise
I, a lost fog, unable to veil 
the sound, tear away the last dew 
draining from ur eyes in 

A dark will descend as I 
envelop you as the last veil and 
the deep pores of a sorrow long forgotten 
keep tugging at the noise of the people I
will never know 

Some seem familiar for they are the stories 
I have told myself, some I will tell myself 
in the last attempt to bracket this world