- in the name of Allah -

marvel now at how fast peoples' states change, from insanity to clarity fully tamed, just a drop in the ocean is all it takes for darkness to dissipate, leaving twilight and shade in the place of shadow and the unnamed. the night just isn't the same as day, sometimes too quiet, always too few people around to take one's own burdens away. I was never Atlas, I could never navigate the treachery of myth or expectation of the foolish, or even just hold my own weight alone. it might be that my walls at times become too tall, letting no one in while never letting dreams out to find out if they will rise or fall. should birds not fly, all they'd have left is to sit still and die, the beauty of feathers and flight concealed by fear of failing, caught with chest tight on thorns dripping with the poison of lies. fortunate it is that the worst I ever seem to face is only the person standing in my place, a soul coming to grips that it is mammalian and not a self-styled avian. alas, alhamdulillah for imagination that lets me see past the present, into my self and a future of maybe's, pulled back from descent while proving a path to salvation.


- in the name of Allah -

randomness, constructed from thoughts over these past few weeks:

why can I breathe easiest from the bottom of abysses, from where the ebbs of soul and spirit flow poetically, though on the surface appearing as listless? so many rhymes and realities trickle their way from ether into the mind, never beckoned, never by design, but with all signs pointing to Tartarus, my palace of ash gets blown away, like dreams fading from a waking person's grasp. each moment it seemed my paradise wasn't lost, that I had it all in hand, that my road to truth could be traveled with no cost,  it slipped through as if it were sand, burning flesh away as penance for being merely a man, burdened with hopes while freed from fears, all the while with eyes wishing to well but never able to let go any tears. it is a trifle of fortune I was never meant to exist in this plane, a place where ideals are seldom created but too often constrained, so either they bend with heads bowed, or break, their tails chopped up into fodder for cows, feeding folly for the morrow's coming stars, a tribute to societies that survive by tearing others apart. if the pictures thus far painted remind one of apocalypses yet unfinished in scope or not quite begun in earnest, then Picasso I am, brilliantly wanderous, aiming for such heights without brushes or canvas. speak or write if words find form, perchance a lasso is just what I need, for the phoenix to be reborn.