Silence of Words

Maybe the tear wanted not to be fallen
Maybe the joy wanted not to be popped
Maybe the day wanted not to be blued
Maybe the breath wanted not to be felt
Maybe the lids wanted not to be blinded...

Maybe the thoughts wanted not to be inked

The mystery

Each thought holds

Maybe the mystery wanted not to be solved

But neither they’re solved

Nor they could be

Maybe the mystery wanted not to reveal

The hollow mysteries that dwell in it! 

Portrait of a Man in Red Chalk

A network of tangled veins buried under wearily sculptured visage pulling and grasping the sages of bygone years. A fountain up roaring and thundering underneath the naked sky visited seldom by some skulls, pulling and grasping. A drop of water sprinkled on many a year parched sand, dropped and drank in no instance to its thirstiness, pulling and grasping.  A hearth of clay into it fire burning into ashes, flames and continues, whereupon the clay reluctant to burning procession instead, blossoming its coldness and shine; pulling and grasping.  Those eyes, the eyes of thousands; those eyes, the eyes of none. Those high elevated check bones steeping deep and away out of the dents of the skies and the moons. Those tenacious brown balls built farther and deeper within their separate pale meadows. Those parched lines bulging out of every single brick, completely perpetuated and accomplished, concealing in every possible expression if it would've ever  touched its chateau of antiquity.