The Library

This silence. This sombre silence defines this large 

Room. The shelves hide the emptiness. The books 

Flood in the loneliness. The book covers; they hide 

The loud words behind the large stacks that deafen 

This room’s sentiments. Filed, recorded, piled in long

Rows of material firmness, to display each stack as 

Editions of experience that could help rule the world;

If only they were opened. If only they were read and 

Understood the room would be a marketplace. 

The lighting would be better, the shelves would feel 

Warmer and the words would scream louder and clearer.

This room. It has the sombre ambience of a cemetery;

The shelves lined like tombstones reading last rights 

And elegies. The long piles give off the imaginary white

Glow of clean skeletons and the words in there are the

Muck and puss of the earth. If only the soul of the room 

Were not drawn to seek out patronage. If only this soul

Gave life to this room. All it wants is space on a shelf.



The Rest House

On a lonely hill, where no one makes home, is a 

Rest house. On that hill, where crickets take ease 

And lay their tune, where brothers aim never to go, yet 

Their sisters try to rest their heads, is that rest house.

With foundations foreign and strong yet weak to the 

Muddy terrain, sturdy and yet, so frail to the seasons there;

This rest house was made to ease the weary and travelling in

pain, yet

Welcomes those who use it for a wicked aim, and then leave.

The caretaker has no complaints; it gets so lonesome on that hill;

When the rest house is his mind.
                      ||THE REST HOUSE||


The Torment of Lebbie

Wouldn’t you love it if I gave myself, all five sense and soul

To your sense of selfish whim, till your tongue can dance

Much more? So it rouses my awe and leaves me as, the

One who will play your world from start where it should entice, 

And keep the suspense. But, when I break the wall and share

What I hide from your world, will you see fit to indulge my 

Voice, will you flirt with my memories and give a thumb up when

Necessary? Will you sympathize if I fall for a shoulder or quick

Night? Will you allow I speak my heart? Will you listen while I 

Grieve, and peeve at my own blistering plights and laughs and

Ego? I doubt, that you won’t wait for my line to end, you would 

Help me begin a stanza from where your words last ended, and 

Endure as you quest my soul to drink in your verse as covenant;

To hail it as the right form, as the best page of an epic on a scale,

 Too grand to emulate by a mortal as such as I.

You would enjoy it and I would hold a monologue In my head;

Calming my aching, soothing the broken, being my own

Mother and lover 

because I merely register as a listener.