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Despair

If you can but see,
the height of desperation
where death is deemed
more desirable than
the pitiable plights of
the people of Palestine.

Why no one in this
momentous a moment
call out the name of the killer?

The wantonness of the world
The inhumanity of human
The gullibility of god
The irrationality of religion
The impotency of prayer
The prostitution of justice;

Where do one seek the salve
for the suffering souls?

First I had faith
but had no god,
and when I found god
I lost my faith!

I Always wonder why I'm here

Dear me, I always wonder why I'm here. I've always been a curious individual, watching the leaves fall and the flowers bloom, an endless cycle of inevitability. I always wonder why I'm here. Because I can't seem to find the end, or the beginning, or anything at all without losing myself. I always wonder why I'm here. I watch the ceiling at night, the lazy light creeping in, like my own nightmares chasing me. I always wonder why I'm here, my dear. You know, I see you in me. I see me in you.

Dangle A Backdrop

Fountains sprinkle summer city rising steam spiral,
wet dispersed and raucous shrieks from children,
pavements, streets. lanes, byways imbued,
with that June to September jubilance,
jovial spirit goes beyond the urban confines yet included,
the riot of revelry induced by that vim incited by this season,
those are season smart relish the fragility of blissfulness,
it vaporises, vanishes, veers into segments and sections,
this applies to townscapes, urban settings, rural destinations,

NEVER IS ALMOST LONG ENOUGH

NEVER IS ALMOST LONG ENOUGH

From that initial remark until all forgiveness is done
With all possible interpretations of it under the sun
And there’s never any victory that either side won
Just a bitter taste that will not ever subside or fade
Stone slabs, from which a wall has now been made
And a mountain of rubble, that’s irretrievable stuff

For some it’s a moment, but for others it is forever
And it is about handling emotions, not being clever
As there is always that one last connection to sever
There is not even a heated exchange one may miss

Where the Olive Tree Waits

In the rubble of a nameless street, a girl ties her hair with wire and counts the syllables of silence between missiles. She remembers a house — not the shape of its walls, but the smell of her mother’s bread, and the way shadows leaned gently at sunset. Each night, her father recites verses the world forgot, as if prayer could rebuild a roof. A boy plants a paper flag in the sand, not to claim the land, but to say: I was here.
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