Devil

A devil stares me at night,
Standing infront of me,
Whenever I dream of darkness,
I know it will someday grab me,
Take over my mind and body,
As I try to stay numb to sensations outside,
For they push me closer to it,
Everytime my heart bleeds,
And I become pieces of chalk,
That absorb slowly its footprints,
In dark soot and viscous slime,
I try to sleep with eyes that close sometimes,
It comes closer everyday,
Near to my feet,
More than ever,
I can feel its hands reaching up my bed,
Or is sanity slowly diminishing from my head,
Past is future,
Or is future past……

The Fisherman

There once was a fisherman that lived beyond a river that had been long dried up. The once lustrous flow of clear water that bore fishes large enough to feed families now only had stones carved by its water-round, dilapidated, slowly degenerating. The fisherman out of habit visited the river each day in a hope that water will someday start flowing through it again and feed him. He would everyday open his net, spread it neatly over the river bed and wait for the water. At the end of the day, he would again collect his massive net and with a heavy heart head back to his home. He would spend sleepless nights on his bed thinking about the next day and how lavish his breakfast, lunch and dinner would be had the river started flowing. Days passed and turned into months, months to years and years to decades when one day the fisherman didn’t have the strength to move. He became a captive of his situation, unable to even move. He could now only think about the river and all the fishes in the river and how they would be calling his name. The fisherman thinking the same closed his eyes one day to let sleep intoxicate him. He woke up the next day to find he was his younger self with muscles of that a teenager. He quickly grabbed his net and rushed towards the river. The river was flowing with water that gushed so fast even the stones were carried in the flow. The fisherman jumped with joy and hurriedly started to unfurl his net when he heard a sweet voice call his name.  Filled with awe he turned around to find a beautiful girl standing, a face he recognized from somewhere. Hello Miss, I think I have seen you somewhere, he remarked as he started to walk towards the girl leaving his net on the ground. How can you forget me, the girl said, I was your fish, the girl had remarked. The fisherman was found dead the day before. 

Photo by Mathias Reding on Pexels.com

Each day

I see faces down with the work of yesterday,
The faces tired and anguished,
Dirt lay still and has made mounds on them,
Living but dealing with canyons that haven’t touched in eternities,
For One sees reflections of oneself,
Their inner beings around them as they traverse,
Tread over boulders big and small,
Life as we see and life as we believe,
Changes meaning every other second,
And every other passing of day,
For life is simple,
Simple as water dropping down a stalactite,
For years and years until it forms another similar being like themselves,
Life has meanings in times like these,
Times of everyday,
Each day…..

Crescendo…..

I see stars embedded in my palm,
For they shimmer in the night,
When the Moon is far,
And the wolves howl through the dark,
They bring me peace sometimes,
Calm down my palpitating heart,
Or burn through my skin,
Scars that stay forever,
Under the epidermis like a brand of destitution,
A tattoo of obligation, nothing to be proud of,
I try to stay true to my roots,
For they bring me cold water,
Quench my thirst and bury my lavishness,
By the fertile mud of my ancestors land,
That grows a tree inside my mind,
A tree that extends over centuries,
And bears fruits for generations,
Sometimes golden and burnt,
And yellow and red,
For I see stars and how they burn,
And I tell my self to shine like the Omega and the Alpha,
But wait and rest and sleep and recharge,
Whenever they burn through my skin,
And visit my roots more than often,
The stars of my distant crescendo…..

Bleed

I bleed slowly on tattered bedsheets,
Of closely minced with dead meat,
Rotting, degenerating, infested with melamine ticks,
For my blood thickens and spreads unevenly over times before and after,
As I try finding myself,
Over the corpses of my dead dreams,
The desires gutted in slumber,
I cry for help,
For the end is not near…..