- in the name of Allah -



there's not enough spaces, not enough hello's, not enough faces, in a world only shadowed, for a soul made placeless. footsteps and oft-beaten paths, wandering as Alice once had, found so many mirrors, just never the one, the looking glass. with these eyes I look and I look, and the only thing I see, is the temporal and skewed, both waiting by time and fate to be took. the wider the vision, the deeper the lens, the more impossible it seems, for me not to pretend. so much joy and work, fruit and labor, the sinews of it all, threaded together for the sake of savor. even as turns to ash, the ambitions of man, studded in jewels, dreams only a Midas might have, before his curse, bore him in perpetuity sad. love love, marry marry, toil toil, though comes the day, when time for all past is but foil. cherry trees, tempting and adorned, knowledge once forbidden, a long irony's serenade, soliloquies' lament since humanity's beginning. our place, as it appears to be defined, is to struggle and fight, close old wounds by day, and open new ones by night, to love and contemplate its loss, to restrict our instincts, while making valleys lush from barren troughs, to avoid the glance, if not then keep from touch, holding back from falling trance, alas if hearts found love (or lust). all our motivations, every single impulse, shrouded in innocence, designed or destined, naught but failure's instrument. give the mouse just a tiny piece of cheese, see how long it wanders in its maze, before it learns to say 'thank you' and 'please'. are even mice so doomed, that they seek not a home to be free in, plotted against by all, lured by threats of hell and promises of heaven? savor this, then, that I envy the mouse, such a simple brain, all to keep its purpose sane. it wanders with no doubts or quandaries, simply moving about where food is found to fill its need. for all our advances, for as far as we may progress, there is no turning back the fact: we are still humans yet. our lives are woven by never-ending sorrows, dreams that stretch past their common sense, knowing full well they may never see the 'morrow. we love that which cannot be had, find no solace in our reach, though food and family both such hands retain, a fool's bargain too often with our souls we seek. still, I would rather float upon the seas, or drift across the dunes of sand, than rescind my right to walk by different means. there is nothing here for me to be had, that could not reach my soul untainted, no object with its meaning kept, no hope to hold without its luster fainted. one may wonder, then, always, why breath fills lungs not shallow, why heart deigns fit to fill veins with blood, while the soul finds no footing, only a grave which it had dug.