Poems & People

what if poems could be symphonies, and people their orchestra?

Akaasi 25: Empty Souls

I hath spoken to the mounds of dirt

even then hast returned to me reason,

But of empty souls ask me not O Lord

I vouch neither for the dead nor dust.

Among Fools

Burdened art they with the plummeting hour
which falls from reason down unto madness,
not grieved further by such sin or fault
as to have left unlit the godly spectre of here,
and now; for may never a tomorrow exist
where gentle minds shalt gentle dreams
rock in the shadow of this tumult, today.
But If not, may vanity spit upon them,
and monsters art they who bleed for men,
bastards in the midst of all innocent fools
charged with the sanctity of raging virtues.

Essential Lies

To gain such affluence, unattained before,
we lost the wealth we were meant to gain,
akin to the wisdom of a life we had more
the wisdom of wounds, of loss and of pain.
Weapons and wars, letters and degrees
nations and borders, orders and decrees
likes of which to were unwelcome our dreams
as well to our egos too worthless it seems.

Akaasi 24: Wounded is that Eye

Where once shimmered a velvet sea,
of love, ardour and wrinkled clemency,
now spans hollow the end of my days,
beneath its skin, a wounded optic plays.

Akaasi 23: Never Bliss

Whilst thou rejoice’st in the splendor of day,
the fear of darkness hath crept to stain
thy conscience clean with the mark of dismay
and no longer then dos’t thy bliss remain.

Akaasi 22: The Pakistani Dream

Sesame sprouts crumble the sweating dirt,
a summer breeze warms a valley’s breath,
brimming shores under the majestic sun
pave an endless river to all fates unknown.

Remembrance

‘Neath the warm breath of our remembrance
of all things worth and all things worthless,
tis receeding, the shore of thoughtful semblance
and standing in its wake, art mounds dauntless;
of sand, of salt, of time and young promises,
A wasteland tis, the dusty bed of such oceans
neath this breath hot, tired and yet ominous
too many hath lost their tide in its motions.’

December Wedding

Bathed in light of Decembers noon,
a garden was once dressed in fuchsia
banners and faux flowered dunes,
that sook the love of trampled scilla.
Blissful winter read one visage,
lifeless though in clouds of white,
layed in tow of undressed foliage
left to bear her ultime blight,
and in hopeless near such manner
hopeful once of loves great spring,
grasping in one hand a banner
and in one hers both in string,
lay her betrothed lost at side
from the hate of those lost souls,
when was raped our angel bride,
until she could no longer dole.
Lips those painted with deep red
could kiss a garden red with ease
‘stead they leveed a river fed
from life’s intent to death appease.
Yet in that moment all the while
joy had spent its fleeting bloom,
goblets had not drank their wine
and violins had not left their tune,
as sorrow much like days of youth
waits for none to stop and stare,
seeks and hides all life in truth,
lays us all great dread to bear.
Though greater than us does it taunt
each glance of death’s upon life’s art,
the horror with which we instead haunt
it, death, until effervescence parts.

Peshawar

Fore the last day sets upon our silence,
we shant leave light whilst saving grace,
but falter and falter until such violence
shall fill our souls beyond past’s trace
and for our wounded and our departed
we shant leave light whilst saving grace,
but madden our gentle and placid hearted
resolve until madness can mark our place.
Do not mourn falling children of babel
leave not this light whilst saving grace,
but in sought vengeance do freely revel
and let not that night our freedom efface.
Wallow and over in such anguish again
that light may pity before it must fade
that night may fear your dark and then
let blood for blood be what is paid.

Opiumistan

Contempt has’t seed, and for loam, that nation;
windswept worthless by waste land’s whisper,
thirsting if not, then too drunk on privation,
to liberate the lesser souls from its elixir.
From wine, white to red, and ecstasy, only woe,
drawing now and ever, the tragic art of war,
to which hath fallen many, too many without foe;
souls of better men, whom contempt is not for.

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