Adin Ziaf

He asked: "Who are you?" She answered with brutal bluntness: "I'm the poetry flowing like blood in your veins. I'm the fire and the tempest. I'm the passion and the rage. I'm an unpredictable storm in the woodlands. So pardon me if I wrecked or repaired a piece of you while passing by. For I am one of the secret conspiracies of the universe."

This hope to be whole, This agony to be enough, And this desperation to be dreadfully aligned with our soul, Is it all an illusion? Keeping us at bay and letting us burn with its delusive desire? Reality speaks for itself, We are never meant to be mended, Not with the burden of this bod, Neither in the freedom of the soul, We are a riddle no bod has resolved.

Amid the ageless legends of stars, souls, heavens, and Hades, appears a dream. In the tiny, sharp blades of lashes it glimmers. It bewitches the spirit, spectating the spell. In a moment of enchantment, it shows the cascade of life and the source that seeps joy and speaks serenity. In a dreamy moment, the heart sees life and merriment mingled in the damp, tiny trails of hair. It is a face that speaks joy to me and pours warmth into my soul.

I see all the blues of your eyes spilled in the sea of your despair. I see it when you say "perhaps in another life" while absolutely certain of its singularity. I see all the pearls dispersed from the grief of your gifts. I feel your heart when it contracts and compresses with the remnants of the ones you struggle to bid adieu. I see when your heart fails to free them from the web of veins from the tip of your head to the end of your toes. I see when you bring them back from the dead with your blood, because you're too afraid to cut your arteries while cutting them off from the tendrils of your lost memories.

What's poetry, if not the tearing out of your heart right from the curves of your ribs and making it a pot of ink, and filling the nib of your soul, to seal the darkest, hardest, and barest of your emotions? Perhaps an autopsy of your tangible and intangible assets, that leaves you vulnerable and victorious at the same time.

I, too, am claustrophobic, but not to the narrowed walls of bricks, but to the pressing of flesh. I, too, am suffocated, but by the hypocrisy of their souls. When they dress layers and layers of deceit to their dreading bods. I, too, am gravely strangled by the air of their lungs, when all they do is lie to my soul.

In the breaking, slipping movements of malice, my heart realized that only the sorrows of my soul can save me from myself. That's the cure and care I need. My own hurt is my atonement and autonomy.

And I know the pavement of pleasure and felony. It's a charm, an illusion, and a mere mirage. You get nothing but the crumbs of your shredded soul by the end of this diabolical sham.

It's easier to never taste the ecstasy of a rum-filled goblet than the refusal of a taste lazily lingering on your taste buds.

We are creatures of intricacy. We grieve the deceased, but we do not welcome the dead crawling back from the grave.

There's so much hurt in the world, and so much sweetness in that hurt.

And her urge to love was lost in her run to survive.

He asked: who are you? She answered with brutal bluntness. I'm the poetry flowing like blood in the veins. I'm the fire and the tempest. I'm the passion and the rage. I'm an unpredictable storm of the woodland. So pardon me, if I wrecked or repaired a piece of you while passing by. As I am one of the secret conspiracies of the universe.

I have missed people, places, things, and moments in their presence. So what greater agony would it be to miss them in their absence? Their presence spilled secret tears from my eyes, and their absence would certainly spill blood from my heart. I know, because the marrow in my bones can feel it.

I saw myself sprinting in the staling stillness of my being. The noise was of my silence, and the silence I bore to speak.

And then, I saw a distorted image of a dandy world. The faces I admired for the familiarity and the tender treatment, shattered like a poison phial.

The memories ran their course, and the smiles shading benevolence became a diabolical sham.

A throbbing back is always better than a bleeding heart. As I hold dear the ache of my hard work over the ache of my idleness.