Walking Into Window Panes

In a jewel box, not
Your lovely pristine image kept,
In carve gold frames,
Unfit to hold,
Thy auburn crown
As only smooth rivers may flow,
Mischief tinge eyes
Even stars falter aside
Of chimes of passion of surprise,
Hearts may melt if made of ice
Once fix upon by thy humble gaze
And me i may only wish upon the skies,
And hope that heaven pities me
Wrench my lonely soul away,
From where even angels pale to stay.
For beggars like me,
Unmatched, uncouth, un-divine..
Have no place beside those nimble feet
that have thread lightly upon numberless hearts....

Life is a burden, it is an unwanted gift.

It chooses to awaken you, without giving you a reason.

Like a marionette, you obey the master puppeteers.

You have to live because life demands it of you.

Life is a burden, like a thousand thoughts unwritten.

It hangs upon your shoulders and demands full attention.

A bell that rings of constant annoyance.

To remind you that you cannot lose it...

Without losing yourself.

The heaviness of the heart.

The pinpricks of conscience.

The plastic masquerades.

The bundle of rules.

The infinite wait.

Strength seeps from ridges of the crack heart.

Where weariness leak through the gaps.

Faith dash to pieces upon sanity.

Innocence sunk to the deepest death.

Believe blown away by doubt.

Life is a burden, born to be bore by an unwilling soul...

I wait, untouched
Till the end of days
the body passed but the spirit whole
for Him,
essence of morning glory
flutter of dove feathers
three drops of sorrow dew
form by dreams
He is never there,
only messages
written in wind, water and fire
bridge unfound to cross
Time spins in circles
He watches you,
I saw
and envy...

One by one the light bulbs go
like dust silence settle across the floor
from cracks and crevices the unfound grow
thus begin a night of laughing sorrow...

A puff of phorus
Yellowish glow
the torch of the wanderer
dampened by shadows

clinking pouches
slightly hunch
beneath the arches
crept the Gun

twirling sawdust
fluttering webs
creaking rot
wheezing breathes

Perhaps Douglas Adams was exact on his argument that we may all know the answers to our questions. But the problem is that we do not know exactly to what questions those belong to.

Goals have been achieved, but the purpose of the goals have been forgotten.

Journeys have been walked, but the sense of satisfaction is absent.

Companies have been made and lost, but no parts of the puzzle have been solved.

Yet, time does not stop to ponder upon these..no such luxury. It whips us up on a ride , one single ride of a lifetime with the eventual suspense of being pounded to pieces upon a cliff side.

Strap on...strap on. Fate may bring you upon this path. But bulldoze it into a highway, so that others may walk it easy.


Peace cannot mix with passion. Price for every prize.

God is the loneliest supreme being in existence because there is no Goddess since God is supreme?

No religion explains what is the purpose of Creation. Merely the process of Creation.


Waiting waiting for the bloody annoying thing to happen so that i can play....

The safest thing from Change is a Mirror,
each thing that moves into It's sight is 'seen' and passed on,
the hills that we once sat upon may shift and crumble,
rivers change course or cease to flow,
the usual couple on the bicycle may never pass this way,
nor will sorrow or hope always be present.

The safest thing from Change is a Mirror,
It's frame may rust and turn to dust,
but see it will all things past,
keep memories it never will,
the deeper you go the more you see,
not of It, but of you and me..

The safest thing from Change is a Mirror,
the safest thing from a mirror is a lie,
It shows you not what is true,
see you must of what you wish,
what you see
mundus vult decipi

The safest thing from Change is a Mirror,
but even mirrors fog in time,
Curious isn't it,
what lays within
the mirror when it is covered,
whether by cloth, by dirt or by lies....

Why we mammals? The need to pass through so many psychological stages in the process of growing that surpasses even those physical changes of insects. Such complexity, and yet so little study about it. Why bother to create things, to mold our environment, to make a difference in the world when we can't even understand ourselves? Or is that rather the microscopic lenses that we place ourselves under. A process to study a process. What happens when the snake bites its tail. That perhaps there is no real beginning or ending. Life is as it is, merely a picture painted on the wall. Like a Mona Lisa's smile. A guess work of no definite answers. Valuable only after death for scrutiny. Without a divine purpose but with the mere objective to exist, to survive.....