Borrowed Time

 Sitting in the middle of that bench atop his meager island,

Watching the tranquil waters, gazing deeper than the vision could pierce,

His quiescent eyes finding meaning, or someone, or something,

But he was all alone, alone on his island of solitude, waiting,

Immovable air, and numb water stood there swathing his silence,

Silent enough to hear his own memories, to hear his palsied heart.

Afraid of his own shadows, he counted his memories,

As yet, his embers flickered, his disquiet soul withered,

Motionless, colorless, he waited for his decree to be told,

Watching a rowboat enraging, he opened his mouth, whispered,

Insatiate figures hurdling, reaching out to grasp his embrace,

For his wait was over, his borrowed time had come to an end.

The Orchestrated Arbor

 Ensconced under the arbor, musing on to the starry night,

He followed the little cracks on the discoloring pedestals,

Soft knocks by falling snow, blurred the proud rose,

Nature actualizing a home on to this garden, on to this arbor,

Vines crippling back, fireflies veiling inside the cracks,

He held his gaze on to the northern star, on to the maturing dark.

An epiphany nestling inside the falling dream, falling shadow,

Embracing the besmirching rose, it surged above the falling snow,

Imperfectly perfecting this newly made home, he smiled,

Upon accepting, he saw the transition in this failing greyscale,

Until it disappeared, he held on to his arbor, his home, his catacomb,

He held his gaze on to the northern star, on to the maturing dark.

Vindictive Marionette

Vindictive renegade serenading among the fireflies,
Marching through empty roads, disquiet emanating riots,
Such eerie harmonies lying next to the wind,
Where the fire burns with sweet arresting duality,
Liberated he stood in front of the false kings,
Solaced, as he reveled in their corrupting reality.

Unmatched even within the stars, the fireflies illuminated,
For the desolation restituted with thunderous symphonies,
Without a name, he coronated himself, The King of Dark,
Animated strings coming undone, the Marionette commenced,
Wading through the dusk, the moonless night rested upon his shoulders,
Awaken now, he slowly ceased to muster, arrested by his duality.

Locked Suitcase

Locked Suitcase, carried close to his heart,
Clenched like an infant, it meant the world to him,
Little did he know his muffled walk had ceased,
With each step closing in, the euphonic sound matured,
Turning around, he saw a young woman, playing a violin,
Albeit he wanted to leave, he centred himself on the bench.

The young violinist engraved in her music, paused,
He said, "Young blood, play me a memory",
Soon, the sound entrances everybody around,
Taken back to his world of silver, captivated,
Opened Suitcase, read letters, vintaged polaroids,
His search was over, the memories found him themselves.



This small poem is about an old man who is wandering with a Locked Suitcase clenched close to his heart. He comes across a young woman who plays him a beautiful melody which invokes his memories and reminds him the key to open those trapped memories in the suitcase.

Winter Sound

Shaken by the winter sound, the village of martyrs arose,
Leaving their caskets behind, they walked the path of restitution,
Christening the night, the stars withered behind the snowy clouds,
Suffocated skin shredded down to saturate the soul,
Amnesiac pile of bones marking their presence into the white soil,
Empty rhythms echoed, troubled spirits finding their quiescence.

Snow covered stones obscuring their true identity,
Chasing broken leaves in the wind, they walked frantically,
For the search was not over, but the dawn hasted its approach,
Tiny pearl of red shone, evident to merely one,
For his blood finally called his shredded skin and broken bones,
As he finally rested in his own casket underneath the blood bearing rose.