Thursday, September 29, 2011

Half Face

....He watched the half painted face on the wall smile...

His eyes opened to a new morning, white lilies on his table,
The bright yellow tint of the morning sun, streamed his mind,
He watched the half painted face on the wall, blinked his eyes.

The nights spoil, spread under his bed, he could feel the heartbeat,
As he stepped aside to his new day, the face on the wall smiled,
The smile turned to laughter, pride his only emotion.

The spider crawled away, as his hands reached in to the depths,
Depths of his unaltered life, the lips parted in half a smile,
Love, he knew was that which changed the face, the half face.

The lily bloomed, a half white silver petal, fading at its root,
Something had changed from the previous night, spiders in his brain,
The red pool that had formed, reflected his evil self, the passion.

He watched the lily fade away, the white turning to pale rust,
He watched her smile fade away, the sunlight fade into darkness,
The spiders crawl back, as he laid her down, under his bed.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Wings of Dream

Is this life just a path to the place, that we all have come from...

His eye glimmered, with an unending passion,
As his hands worked the soft features of his dream,
Delicately he shaped it, made it real, from his own desire,
Then he breathed life into it, as he watched it fade.

He watched it grow into a beauty, a beautiful nymph,
He gave it everything, desire from his deepest heart.

It had a heart, which beat with every changing season,
It had a soul, which he thought he had owned,
The beauty grew, grew into something he couldn't comprehend
Until it was time to part, but his desires strong not to let go.

Then the story of tears, and sorrow, that passed,
The story of loneliness, that swept across his mind.

He realized that he couldn't shelter his dream for ever,
And agreed to let it free, free into a world of conceit,
But his pride was broken, aged he looked back at time,
Watched his dream bear wings and fly away, loneliness his aid.

He waited, till it had gone out of sight, and then a sigh,
As he picked up his walking stick, with a retreat of an old man.

The Stone Heart

...A man who is a master of himself, can end a sorrow as easily as he invents a pleasure....

He felt a pain surge up his body, as he sat rocking on his chair,
"You are hollow inside, ridden with the ugliness of sin", the voice echoed within his brain.
He remembered his first sin, the day when he broke her heart,
"Poor being, fragile at heart, she din't desrve my love", he consoles himself.

"What is a man without his soul", his shadow reproached him in the dark,
"But i have an everlasting youth, full of beauty", he argued back.
"Have you seen the sins that mar your heart, with lines of guilt uglier than that of age?"
"Alas its not me who ages, or who loses his beauty", he sighed a reply

He slowly gets up from the chair, his hands tremble with the fear of unknown,
His steps are heavy, as he moves closser to the velvet screen,
His eyes are weary, so is his soul, afraid, he moves the screen that hides his shame,
His eyes shut themselves in disgust, at the sight of the ugliness that greets them

He recalled the beautiful summer evening, as he replaced the screen over the portrait
The evening which had stirred the lust of beauty in him, which had instilled the fear of age
His words from the evening played across his mind, as he left the room which housed his sin,
A glitter of unfailing youth filled his eye, as a line of wickedness swept across the portrait,

Beauty is a sin, he had heard them say, envying his youth, as they aged,
For some, an innocent admiration, and for others a lustful shame,
Knowledge he lusts for, as he owns beauty and vanity, as his sin,
His heart knows no love, nor he feels the need for compassion.
For his heart died the day he exchanged his soul with that of the portrait's

The portrait of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde

Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Stone Heart

I sat by the fire, watching it slowly eat on the wood,
A cup of warm coffee sat next to me, steaming as it sat,
The eyes wobbled a bit, catching a bee that hummed past,
And I watched it sit on the plastic flower, was it a dream ?

I watched the clock hands move slowly, talking to each other,
Or was it the ticking of the hands that made the chatter loud,
I sat under the burning bush, that spoke of endless misery,
I watched the bush talk of love which arose from fear,

The bee hummed on, as it buzzed around the bush in the sky,
To be eaten by the lizard that came along, what a wonderful creation,
I heard the crushing of the wings, as the lizard closed its lips on the bee,
I watched it wreath in pain, watched it breath its last,

Thursday, September 1, 2011

The Purple Room-2

He sits on the park bench, watching the little flower fall,
It swirls, it floats around, and it finally touches the ground,
He picks it up, decorates it with his thoughts, and gives it a form,
His stare burns the empty petals down to ash, the flower dies,
His brain, a crumbled leaf, the blind spot of his life.

He sits in his room, stares at the flickering television screen,
The black and the white dots, make up his life, empty to the end,
He watches the color change, and life come to the screen, a drama unfolds,
His fingers move across, presses the power off, the drama fades,
His brain, a crumbled leaf, the blind spot of his life.

He walks up on the street, sees a beggar sitting, begging by the side,
A nickle he throws at the beggar, as he runs away, runs in disgust,
The beggar doesn't say a thing, continues to beg for his daily bread,
The nickle turns to gold, a loss for the man who gave, and a gain for the beggar,
The brain, a crumbled leaf, the blind spot in our lives.

The Purple Room - 1