Red

The sand, the sun and the waves

Seem similar yet disoriented each time.

That reddened sun looks so familiar;

As though the new born

Turning red with her first cry,

As though the face of a reluctant lad

Unwilling to go home as the sun sets,

As though the cheeks of a teenage girl

With butterflies and blushes,

As though the fury in a woman's eyes

Running her unsettling errands,

As though the red spots in a bed ridden granny's

Pale skin that marks her still alive.

How did I just picture a whole life

In the setting sun vanishing at the horizon?

Is this a Painting?

He looked at her

As though she was a painting.

He wondered at her brown eyes.

They shyly shifted their gaze.

He admired her blushed cheeks.

He dreamed over her curves.

He wished he could untie

Her beautiful imprisoned hair.

He longed for her trembling lips.

He gandered at her sensous gasps.

He looked at her

As though she was a painting.

She was nervous standing alone,

Intolerable with his lustful gaze.

She felt uncomfortable

In her own body,

Threatened in her new dear dress,

Unsafe on her own land,

Unbearable with her raising heart,

Terrified with the histories.

She wasn't a painting.

She was a soul embodied.

Yet she couldn't stop him

As though she was a painting.

The Gardener

Your Highness! Accept these flowers
From your humble subject.
Those are the hand-picked cherry flowers.
The scent of it will take you to heavens.
 
Pleasure’s mine to serve you
And this kingdom. I am the gardener.
Make me the king!
That should end all our agony.
 
Adore yourself with patience
And hear me before you command.
I am the gardener who knows
The bloodless battles you fought.
 
The rarest wild Taisies at
The garden’s northest end
Have the juice that slowly poisons
One’s head and one’s senses.
 
When the generous king from Etheraile
Signed his land in your name,
Who do you think harvested
The whole lot of taisies in one eve?

The long-wired beans that grow
In summer shuts down one’s liver.
With no symptoms for two happy days,
One’s lively body faints to death.
 
When the reluctant king of Midwestland
Turned down your offer and was
Laid down in the coffin the second day,
Who do you think picked the ripened beans?
 
But the cherry flowers are soft and decent.
They give you their fantastic fragrance,
And choke you to death giving you
A few moments to utter your last words.
 
So don’t you think I know too much?
Make me the king and I shall
Give you a great funeral.
Drinking water will not save you.

That was the end of an era
For our kingdom and the land’s histories.
With all due respect I take this Crown.
Indeed his highness deserves a great funeral.

To the Housefly I killed

Today I killed you.

And I add that in my portfolio.

For you aren’t an easy target.

You’re swift and dynamic.

And I am proud I killed you.

Why? You sat on my food.

Where else you had been?

In dirt and decayed?

You go on the ripe and the rotten,

On the food and the feces alike.

You may haven’t suck my blood,

Nor you have bitten me hard.

But you spoiled my needs,

You soiled my dreams,

So I killed you.

You did hurt me.

You took away

What I needed the most

When I wanted it so badly.

So I killed you.

You aren’t the romantic “fly”

As you had been for Blake.

You’re the nuisance.

You and your tiny maggots

Are disgusting in my eyes.

So I killed you.

You ruptured my rapture.

You forcefully withdrew my plate.

You left my hedonic hunger unfed.

So I killed you

And you’re the crime

I do not regret.