Words not spoken

I could care less
for the flight of the jungle fowl,
tethered by my hopelessness
having slunk down a pond in the forest,
Where i sit
uninevented into what i had dreamed,
a man not myself,
The wind drives the trees
and not my sorrow instead,
There is a rhyme in the words not spoken
there is always a rhyme in the words not spoken,
and they are digging a hole for me

Bringing disorder to our perfected doom

It is midnight in gandhi's mind,
Its not time yet,to pick garbage off the street
so we sleep on it,and die too
There will be opportunities
to cut yourself from the knees
and demand sympathy from those who will walk,
walk into the barrel of a misfired gun
walk through a kingdom spitting fire
and collapsing on its mothers and fathers,
But there will not be the calling for a resurrection
if death won't be felt,now

And they say home is where the heart used to be....

And i mumbled words to the door
I will always be close,
to unbolt what life is left of you,
The lock clicked and i walked away
feeling caged with a key from the outside,
It is a battle for the intentionally lost
and the man on the inside always wins....

All the cows returning home

There is this air
halfway
to the sky,
the landing of feet
over snow
is the sound rapping
between thick ice
and the warmth of the sun
lost in it,
Moonlight is a lost childhood
waiting to cry out
of someone's blood and bone
A buck sneaking through the forest
is the rustle of a leaflet,
not yet having announced him
His heart thawed,his chances
gone by then

a slow passage through the forest

The hands of a breeze
blindfold me,
it is the wet eyebrow
of a tree slowly
climbing down my spine
as with it the life in me,
returning to the earth

Begging for sand

I was a beggar
on the banks of a river
where the waters wouldn't climb high,

For a brief moment
her unworn eyes
dropped a nickel in the sand

Far from the aggregation of life

Its dusk

The weight of light settling down
on my shoulders as with
sights they are running away,
My fists still devoid
of the touch of calm as
as it is life they hold on to
The sky an unmovable object
bearing down ominously
as with its knowledge i wake
A rotten apple in everyone's cradle
Too many were too sweet to give away
as most things in life,

hang by that thread