- in the name of Allah -



With ramadhan almost over, one wonders ahead to whats next. Kind of ironic since it seems I made so little of the month while I had the chance, but its this time of year that brings out the most ironically cynic part of me that begs the question (to others) why should these days be any different in terms of how we treat them...though I can myself answer that apparent predicament. These days are different, they feel different, as if theres a light rain on the world, a soothing rain that brings a little peace to me, if only I had motive to seek it out. So to what end were these last 30 or so days coming soon to a close? Truly, only Allah knows His wisdom; humanity plays out its part and comes to know sometimes too late. Interesting to note, but I think that even if people knew or could know what really was to come tomorrow, they would still make the same mistakes over again. Which brings us to the point, how exactly humanity is defined, how it will define itself, how the just are seperate from the injust, and so on.

In any case, after a recent postulation from a friend regarding my own search of a passion, the answer hit that same night..what have I done all throughout my life, when times have been rough to when they've been idyllic? Poetry. As off as it may have been, thats the utensil I use in spilling the guts out my mind, of finding light at the end of narrower and narrower tunnels. And so, encore it goes.



a passion pruned, a mystery mourned, awoke the stargazer to find the world's been scorned. the planet spinned on its axis faster than he could have imagined, yet time lay still, a throbbing heart waiting for its moment of ashes. where were the spellbooks, the potions, the magicks of magic past? just when it mattered most, his lofty reverie failed him and it all came to crash. dull thuds and torrential knocks, reality's visitation was one he'd pay heed to else revoke his sanity to thoughts within a prison locked. the door of senses slowly open creaked, haunting memories in tow, for just another grave of dreams. no funeral, no tears, no black garb, only many needless fears laid to rest. though the coffins may never close, their runes are silent- in place of vigils, a darkened rose. there is no aftermath, no going back to the scene, fate stole the gazer's lines, leaving him speechlessly serene. its not often that an actor finds purpose from an unknown script, but when the roads are finally built, its hard not to appreciate what is.