Locked Inside My House

                                               

                                             
                                               

An organism, invisible to the eyes

 Is refocusing my priorities


Reconnecting myself to known voices,
almost forgotten

An organism, invisible to the eyes

Is making the invisible,
visible to my eyes and mind.

Don't ever ask me To

Don't ever ask me to,
Tell, what is the color of our blood ?
It's neither saffron nor green 
Not even red  or something in between
It's a brilliant color  of 
Pain
And grief
Of laughter
And joy
Of shared history 
And mis-sharpened  
Ideologies 
Causing
Hatred 
And 
Death
Don't ever ask me to 
Tell, what is the color of our blood?

Road

On a slippery
Road
Lined with
Aged Rose wood
With colors borrowed
From
Moon
And
Sun
In a wink of an eye
Fragile lives
Touched
Leaving
A Mark
No moon
or Sun
Can Touch.

The Thesis: The cycle of recycled crumbs of Mercy and Justice

The little minions in their well ironed black coat

Pristine white shirt breaking the black hues

The strong wind blew the black ties flew

The little minions scurried in the gleaning arches

Of Law School blues.

The little minions scurried, each one protecting

A black book with glistering gold

Forgetting the prices of the blinking gold

Pasted in the thin black book

To passed or perished the book must go

The little minions scurried with blinking gold

To feed justice and mercy with pieces of gold.

The little minions flees

With their fancy booming beast

Fueled with silver and gold.

Ruins

The pieces are scattered….

In an organized fashion……

The viewing crowds …are in awe….

"Oohs",  "Wows" resonated in the room

A bit deafening maybe 

Is that You or Me

Who is voluntarily sitting in the viewing gallery?

All dressed up, covered with silk

The diamonds and rubies are all in placed

The ruins are all in placed

You and I are scattered ruins,   

In an organized fashion…..

  

Slowly the sun sets
Sipping our teas
Between conversations
Mirroring the past
How much of the past

Created the present?
Will the past and present
Be a bridge for future
Sipping our teas
Slowly the sun sets

Embracing Solitude

In Soundless lullabies,

And Formless, shapeless cradle

Let me rest my head.

In Vast, limitless

Boundaries of thoughts

Let a Companion born

And in differing shades,

And intensity of solitude

Let me open my heart

To reorganize, reshape, redefine

My inner world.