Give Me War

Have you ever looked,

at a woman,

so cordial in her essence?

You feel as though,

your presence,

could hinder her sunlit portrait.


A vision,

continues to play;

where you inevitably taint this pristine brush.


A brush,

that has never truly been held,

in an artists soft,

and passionate grip.


A brush,

that has yet to absorb,

every coloured emotion,

under the dynastic sun.


A brush,

that has never loved,

until the principles of sanity,

have been brought under question.


And I have finally come to realise,

why intimacy is a burden,

upon my soul.


The first steps,

towards an intimate bond,

are the most arduous,

I will ever have to take.


Give me war.

Give me hardship.

Give me pain.

But do not give me the power,

to decide her fate.


I know,

that her perfected perceptions,

of love,

may eventually break.


For I have tainted,

too many pristine brushes,

in my wake.

So I remain an artist,

without a brush to paint.

Blue Mist

Here, I am enwrapped by my mortality. Forgotten tastes, on palettes of the tongue. Light colours congregate at the bridge which rises at dusk. Small yachts bask above the purple satined river. Charcoaled, gradually by the night. Filters of existence, fading in and then out. We turn to our dreams, where we are exposed to the auras of former lovers. Their faces, contoured, breathless, in the neon blue mist. Oh how we have missed, the outlines. The rushed seconds of grandeur, elapsed with a blink. The smallest things. Like the lips, we have never kissed. The absence of “good nights.” Walks above the cobbles in the old, old town. Where lovers, they drink, into the nocturnal hours. Beneath their indiscriminate, mortal sky.

In All Of Her Sins

I remember the days when I used to hold her in arms. A fragile flower surrendering her eyes to my heart. Yet in truth, we were really worlds apart. The mind how it tricks the most sweetest of loves and doubt becomes the general that crushes the soul. Unable to picture our romance ever growing old. At the embryonic stage of every relationship, is a power you believe will resist any struggle. Those were the days where love was blind and guidance was lacking. If time could be reversed my name would be first on that list. As I walk through the city I feel the wind cutting my skin. Nature has a way of inflicting the most minor of pains. We would walk along the river bed, the birds reciting their hymns. I would fall back to admire this beauty in all of her sins.

Winter Sun

Trees bemoan the season of autumn. Every time it comes around. A of its existence, falls to the ground. Leaving it vulnerable, cold and dazed. Like a broken soul, when the heart breaks. Slowly as the seasons change. The tree begins to breathe again. So when you’re left, exposed by love. remember the naked tree, in the winter sun.

Metropolis Nights

I remember walking into a shadowy metropolis bar. Along the capital’s veins. Where fluorescent lights flickered like far worlds descending. The jazz blue. The marvel green. The impassioned red. Decorating the revellers crescent faces. Separated by the charcoaled darkness and coloured beams. On the faces of empowered youth. Nonchalant eyes wandered through the flow of cosmic sound. I made my way   past vibrant bodies that the music had possessed in desire. Neglecting the musical twitch  conquering my own. The embittered gin introducing itself to the state of the mind as I caught a glimpse of her face for the very first time. Her sclera, overshadowing, the dark essence of her iris and her pupil. A panther, in her elegance. Ruled by mystique, and by fire. With a royal confidence, she approached. In Mediterranean voice; she whispered a sensual verse close to my ear. Death black curls, thicker than rope. Strawberry lips, enriched to capture the eye of anyone who sought to gaze at her regal stature. For is this not what this world, it seeks? A night of lust? A voice to speak? Explorations through, foreign bodies and beds. To immerse in pleasure To immerse in pleasure. Until death.

perished art.

unbeknown, to the destiny of ways. two souls, part. down roads, never made. the lavender night, in its implacable essence. greets two lovers, on the border, between separate paths. her weighted head, rests, against his tiring shoulders. in silence they breathe, as the commotion, of the city fades. if only they could see, their own reflection. in the winter’s haze, by towers of glass. see how their bodies mould, into inconceivable art. Maybe then, would their hearts, conceive intention. a modern tale, where romance withers. with no resistance, from either side. they make their way, down different roads. too endless, and alien. for both their sights.


Her forced smiles were intrinsic. Forged lips, enslaved by her thoughts. Hollow cheeks, strained by continuous contractions. Deep dimples, as if two bullets had left eternal wounds on her mellow face. Eye contact became redundant. Admiring stares, turned into glares of hopelessness. It was as though she was scarred of the future. For she could envision happiness, a far dream to her. Afraid. So, so, afraid. There remained an ample resistance behind her retina. Distorted visions, induced her will, to erode. Along with her heart. Her mind built barriers, so that the soul would stay. Yet the waves of uncertainty and bitterness obliterated them over night. We would awake from stillness. Witnessing our world, weeping in its ruins.

Ruptured Ruins

Like a soldiered anchor, stationed on the crystal blue shore. In the luminous ocean, by a sacred land. My love for you awaits. I am buried under your achilles heel, my ship. Consumed by all that can destroy, you and I. It has been months since I held you down. Staring into tortuous nights, with the knowledge that you are not in the proximity of my strength. Oh my precious ship. I know that you are designed to withstand the most ferocious storms of this earth. Yet, I cannot absorb the image of your wreckage by some strange and distant land. My reach, cannot stretch that far and wide to feel your imperial presence. For if you do not return home, to the crystal blue shore where I lay in wait. The weight of this ocean, will not evade my might. I will free myself from this ancient port and roam the grey bed of the sea. To lay beside, your ruptured ruins.

The Eternal Word

In a world where words have the power to destroy bonds between men. May the poet’s words heal what seems incurably insane. In a place where words such as, “I do not love you”, fracture’s mortal hearts. May the poet’s words, heal your disdain for love. When I write. I do not seek validation. All I wish, is for you to feel something enlightening within yourself. To feel as though the life inside of you has been instantaneously ripped apart, then realigned. My grace. With each poem, I shatter into millions of tiny fragments. And from these fragments, I am reborn. At the beginning of each new line. Of each new poem. I awaken a new man. This is the power of the eternal word. I am the master of the present. A producer of the remnants of the old, and the new. My soul is my sword. My hand, the warrior’s execution, his strength. I need not violence to make me a man. To feel anger without raising a finger in rage is what immortalises mankind. This is what separates men of honour, from men of blood. I have conquered all, but with the strike of a pen. The power of the eternal word.