A Confession

behind the curtains of fallen rays
and coffins of the dead warriors

The cries of vampires and witches
still torture the cold moments of the midnight

crystal tears of regret in the waterfalls
their curses echo from the distant hills

The serpent of black sins
runs through the green courtyards of forsaken memories
and pierces the distant horizon
sealed in with a lead sky

I carry a secret code of fear
in the red wine that climbs through my veins


in the branches of the crippled willow
lurks the prayers of vengeance of the hanged priest now

the spirit of the weeping mother
still hunts for her child’s life
beneath the rusted remains of bullets and daggers


yes, I confess
I hail from the lands of blood and murder
when the bleeding times return
with rotten sweat and regrets


and they escape
when I try to bury them in the dark alleys
of a forgotten poem


And my heart
stripped to a wounded beggar
now begs for mercy
in the graveyards of those burning souls…

Cytherea

Cytherea,
I smear the sky of distant rivers in grey
and carve the black boulders of cloud in its womb.


do you see the golden boat still surfing in the west
as darkness befalls?


do you see the necklace I weaved of diamonds
still hanging in its breast?


while you sing the rhapsody of love and sacrifice
I poison the cataleptic poet residing in my soul
with the selfish thoughts


money
coins
lust and desire ,


and smother it into a silent death…


the forlorn seduction of the
evening jazz ,


the story of the naked whore
writing letters to her midnight lover,


the hunt for the passwords of hidden treasures
beneath the lines of lost highways

doesn’t excite me anymore.

dear sky...

dear sky,
why do you still dress yourself in blue?

why do you hide my thoughts
beneath those distant clouds?

and tell me stories
of twinkling stars
and the golden moon?

His Last Thoughts…

There he sat,
On the cliff of his untamed thoughts ,
Leaning against the boulder of his fears ,
And looking down upon the vast ocean of his memories.

His eyes were different ,
For they were colored with the harsh color of reality ;
A color which bore the ideals of sacrifice ,
A color which bore the ideals of indomitable courage.

The ocean seemed to be pleasant ,
Disturbed , sometimes , by the waves of unhappy times.
There were a few islands floating on it,
Evergreen with the soulful hours of his past.

He wished to travel to those islands , if possible ,
Taking the small boat of time ,
And relive those tantalizing moments of history ,
Which were inscribed deep within his heart.

But , he knew , that he would lose in his aim ,
For , the curse of impossibility would forbid him in his quest ,
And he would have to return with a hollow mind,
Which would be sucked off its hopes and joy.

He knew he would be at war,
At war with his death in a few days ;
And so , he wanted to live the days which remained in this birth ,
With the memories he had cherished throughout his life.

He looked at the calm sky above , flying high with its clouds ;
And dreamt of living the final moments to that limit ,
For he still had some counted days in his destiny ,
Whose precious branches could merge to form the tree of a lifetime.

A Lost Life...

The cold rods of steel
Binds thy self
Thy fingers hunt for solace
The sands of time
Slowly flown away
The dark nails of fear
Pierces thy mind
The music of this lost life
Wicked with the sarcastic charm
Invades with the bleeding knives of pain
Tears would not lose them
The flowing river of red
Discolors with the passing hours
Thy soul flutters
In that barless prison
Seeking ecstasy
Forsaken , thy mortal self
The small window of hope
The last moon smiles in the sky
Darkness is too scorching now
Dawn heralds its advent
The sun prepares to rise
A life is set to lose
The bells of the Hour
Begin to chime.

Dreams and past…

it seems
the broken door waits on the pebbles of patience
arms rusted by the winds of time


I see the darkness peeping through its sides
is she there inside?
With her vision trapped in the black air.


why is my mind so restless?
pushing itself against this innocent heart?


am I dreaming?
yes, I have slept with this dream before.


or is it ,
the small packet of white powder
I tore last night?


No…then why does Picasso say
“Everything we imagine is real”?


Thanks Michelle ,
my room still smells of your Vera Wang
your enigma still haunts the old voyeur on the roof


do you still bear my kiss on your lips?

do I still remind you of cigarettes and Shakespeare?

or have you lost them in the flavors of passion?


but these are meaningless now
as I walk past this door…


golden swords of the sun through the small cracks
hanging stretches of soot,
a miasma greeting me inside


a hanging frame of good times on the wall


yes…I have seen this lady before
smiling in a red swimsuit


do I hear the tune
I have heard when I have slept under the moon?


it still speaks of poems and tears…


does she call me under the shadow of this soulful music?



such difficult times come seldom though
and here I am
standing in this room where the young maiden sits on the stool
playing the piano on the notes of pains and past


why do dead spirits so love
mysteries
under the cruel mask of revenge?

( here Michelle refers to my ex-lover and Vera Wang was the name of the perfume she used)