Inevitable

Teardrops on the wind.
In the rain and the hazy smoke.
That blow aside the veil before
My eyes and bestow
Something not understood
As I threw caution to the winds,
But inadvertently,
Let it swoop down inside.
Like a raging storm
And conquer me.

The storm plummets towards my heart,

The thunder overpowers my sense,

I leave what is mine, behind the doors,

To melt into

The shadows and the perfume of this smoke.

The tempest lurches forward,

As I withdraw,

But in vain.

For before I could see Melancholy coming,

I was captive, yet again.

The cold hand

Wraps around my beating heart.

Subdued, paralysed, inconceivably

Powerful is the notion that tortures me.

Inside my mind the wet smoke drizzles.

And as the hand tightens its grip,

The colours fade from my mind.

The blade comes down the guillotine

Yet it stops.

But the doors have now closed.

Closed behind me as I pushed forward

To the very bane of my existence.

To the power that took me to my end.

But the blade has stopped.

I see it hovering above me.

The power was my own doing,

The power was my own vile sin,

The mirrors now reveal my monstrosities,

Through the venom seething under my skin.

I lay awake amidst the rest of the sleeping souls,

Awaiting the the edge of the knives.

I fly away in peaceful vanity that I have done no good,

One last look at the once open door,

lets down a tear of a sold memory,

Sold to the Devil, my closest one.

I leave the paths I had tread on,

In search of my painful peace.

Painting by Suad-Al-Attar

Like That Of Wine

Flattered by that dark silhouette,
Warned by that glory, so enchanting,
Temptation held void,
For that many cries muffled inside.


The rain for once, would stop lashing,
If I would let the sun come down,
But those clouds would never cease to conspire,
For many of those questions unasked.


But the mist would gather nonetheless.
Gather around the burgeoning burden.
The insurmountable weight of mystery.
And the possibility of a light in the darkness.


This is something I would strive for.
If that be my life's last goal.
But my hope grows feeble as the days wane on.
And my road grows coarse as I remain morose.


If not for that grief-stricken haplessness,
If not for those rosebuds left ungathered on that muddy path,
Would you but understand that road only once visited in crude imagination?
Would you but know if not for immodesty?


The gaudiness of beauty sometimes fails,
To waver that thought pinned onto hope,
All of which transformed into the kind that elucidates unrecognizable faith,
And with that mystery left undiscovered,
The best secrets are best left untold,
To count on that very allure of their nature.


 And that is why as I walk on, never weary at heart.
I realize that the decrepit road can be polished new.
All it needs is nurture and some patience.
All I can give is that asked and a little more.


Hope may waver but I may not.
My road holds me steadfast to my ground.
The secrets of the path in front to be discovered.
As time passes on, as we age together.


Like the countenance of wine with age.
So shall you and I and we together.
Age together and pass on our secrets.
So the mystery of love be cherished.
And the secrets passed on after we pass away.

'One fine wine' by Jennifer Main

Through The Seasons

The wind blows.
Strongly bellowing.
The light dims.
In the shadow of the sun.
Blue, black and steely grey.
The raindrops fall in a haze.
Mildly tempting.
Calling out.
And the breeze strengthens.

In her mind and in her heart.
There are but a few lost souls.
Not wanting to leave.
The desire to reside within.
To be lost within these enchanted walls.
For they are overwhelming.
Overpowering.
Much too beautiful.

It's been seven months now.
The prisoner of her heart wishes to linger.
To live on through the storm.
The storm and the rain.
The rain and the spring that follows.
All the seasons of dark and day.

To love.
To cherish.
Never to leave.
Always to stay.

PS. Happy Seven Months, my sweet flower, Enchanta. :-)