Precision Point

Resounding but ignored,
A right I create
Out of the laws that I hold
More than that which I learnt,
My pace a hidden rate.
And yet again,
Ignored.

And in the lines drawn to point
On either side of my own
In working for a loss
Of a point,
Of a line.
To include and to encompass
At once,
To be all mine.
A point.

Content

The Works of Charles Dickens
Two Volumes

Special Limited Edition of 4000 books individually numbered
RRP: Too much


Huge, beautiful and more than a thousand pages long for each volume. Plus, illustrated and gold-edged.

Now added to my collection :)

Ivy

From times that know not of our physical birth, there exists an ancient drive, an unknown entity discovered. A hidden arousal. Born.

From there, no path is paved for return.

Fuelled by resisitance, a rite of passage of some sorts, it is for the frenzy of vulnerability, a complete sustenance in closed eyes and a rhythmic tread for which we pray.

In Joining. To Compete. Complete.

--------------------------

That step. Walking on air. Leaving the ground from before. Arms out in an embrace to face the slowly rising sky as you fall. Smiling. Waiting for that miracle as you soar down, floating, spread in the breeze. Each gust past your face as the wind creased laugh escapes from within. Content.

Carnal Flight. Progressive Fight.

.
.

One

Each remains distinct. A roughened edge, alert to its own despite the steady rise and fall as the swells gather speed to drop down in fatigue. To rest after fight. To submit to gravitated will.

Muted in attempt to remain, no will is ones own, as sucked in and drawn through the narrowed lines, along with the rest it lays. In a mound. In a finely balanced illusion of golden triumph, until from the heights they jump, and roll, and land, slowly raked to the side. And out of the doubled and tethered glass, it is time to upturn once again, another round. Another attempt to breathe, until hurled down once more. In defiance to stand.

Two

Sat. Allowing the upturned to drown. So still, despite the ravaging beats, lapped around, sworn into a numbed dullness. Planted firm in order to recline in a wait. Devout. For a clarity. For the final seams from the inside to the falling that devours, to be drawn tight and inspired. Hidden. Merged compliance. Convenience. A fall to learn, into hand.

Three

Surrendered. Left to learn. Each hurled and fallen to mime. A clarity to stand in time.

Foreign

There was only silence where she sat as though intoxicated by her own life, her breathing and her sighs. She heard nothing else. Not the silent patter of footsteps across the ledge, nor the rapid knocking from far beyond her mind could see. There was only her in the here and now. In the I and in the We.

Rocking, shuddering, soundless in her cries, her eyes searched in hunger for all that she looked upon despite her empty gaze. Grounded. There was nothing left to yearn. Broken illusions and unkept words, she slowly drew the cloak tighter around that which she had revealed. It was no longer to be this way. Not if it would only result in the same.

Upon the floor she sat, unmoving and secure. Chained to the past, of the now-boxed emotions that could hold no truth, that could not bear the weight, the gravity of what could be seen if only one could see. If it could lie to her no more. Colour left her cheeks and she slowly withdrew to what she was before. Back to death and beyond. A state she knew so well, was so comfortable with that she could befriend it once again. No expectations, nothing held. She could simply just be..

No Farce to be

In echoed steps
Towards you I walk
As parted sighs
Combine to mine
As afraid to gaze
In locked embrace
We guard each start
Though still hurl time
To the troubled deep
Into the waking state
Of the softly laid
From the pieced innate
As I continue to walk
In your leaving print
Lasting; each fear
Of hardened beats,
Back, and in time.

blah blah blah

Patience

Scenes of mute destruction remain.

Such powerful steps. Such a bold cry. Startlingly stilled in frozen desire.. And yet we stoop; incredulous at the weight of that which we sow.

To not believe is an act of defiance; To change, the only way to grieve. And the wait? It is but the calm that can only bring with it whatever is determined to be. This is where each test plays their part: a grasping hold to bring each closer to all that we believe. And closer to the What and the Whom. A wilful choice by design. To endure.

A finality of trust. Each to One alone. More than one could need. And more than that each know.

And she? She shall play it at her own pace; shall remain still if it is willed to be. She does like her games. Time really is a tease.

Arms Open

'We must be willing to get rid off the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us..'

Pyaarun or praarun. Still the same. Always waiting.

Slowly each second trickles away beneath us in the shadows we leave behind. Our lives filtering away, the dregs a remnant of our pasts. The good and bad all lumped together into one. What is it really that is important, the things that will stain our characters and our speech from each incident that we fly through, pausing for a moment and then onwards again?

We are always in a state of anticipation, waiting for things to end or as they are just about to begin.

Are we ever happy being as we are, laying down in the middle of our fields, faces lightly touched by the winds, ignoring our innate sense to rush. In our eagerness to live life, we forget to immerse ourselves in it, saturating our lives with all that there is; the simple things, the things that make us smile. You can't stop things being as they are meant to be, so for now, love it as it is.

There are those that question each smile, as though they are rationed, saved only for occasions where they are called upon in the name of formality and good conduct..

Mine are for me, for my secrets and my joys, each memory laid down in my field.. So let me live my moments and let me bare my soul to each of the winds that pass by.

Let me live my smiles..

Alone

There are times when we shroud ourselves in silence; when we can’t gather enough strength to speak. When our eyes remain dull and we no longer care about what people see. We lock ourselves away and feign madness of the soul, whilst we secretly hope to be freed from the darkness that we did create.

It is an oft forgotten torment, to be alone despite the calls, and despite the start we spoke of, we wish for the end of it all.

Miracles

It is within our nature to accept all that we see and not question the miracles behind the 'norm'. I think it is time that we truly opened our eyes and realise the power and beauty behind all the things that we take for granted.

Birth.

People are born every day. We have all been born. We are born to the born. There are souls waiting, still yet to be infused into a body, to give it life, and be born..

We become immune to the act of birth, accepting it as an ingrained part of living, as a part of nature's circle, where we cast the woman as playing only a minor role, despite it being her that is the instrument through which new life begins. Carried, loved, and protected for up to nine months before it's even born.

Whether it is the love in companionship, or the fiery passion of desire or even hate, a man and woman come together in the laws as nature dictates, and carry out the acts of blessings that are ingrained within each soul, somehow aware of what to do. And from there lies the possibility that a life shall ensue from their night.

Birth, I have witnessed a number of times, but have yet to see the joy that one would expect by finally holding one's child. The women that I saw, lay back in shock, exhausted and immune to the dank atmosphere, their eyes blank, unseeing of the others giving birth in the same room. Perhaps it was the metal chairs that stunned them into silence, or perhaps they were afraid for this new life, brought into a world of suffering and pain, although thankfully, there were no bombings or gunfire that day to be heard. But what about the lady who was sharing a bed with two others and had her child whilst laying there with no cry to be heard, from neither mother nor child.. The child had already passed away, held within the womb, lifeless and still, a loss felt even before its birth. Noone could shed a tear.

And then today..

Standing outside a presitigous hospital, with which I had only memories associated with death, I witnessed new life again. Indeed, the circle was broken, and now the memories can start anew.A lady stood by the lamppost, supported by her husband, her pain clear to all those around, whilst passers-by gave nervous glances and hurried along, unsure of what to do. In a sudden rush, she stood in a puddle and cried out that it would not wait. And out came her child, a beautiful baby boy, caught safely in the arms of his father, who looked stunned to say the least. In the time that it took to reach her side and see if there was anything I could do, another lady came by and wrapped the child in her coat, assuring them by the cries of the baby, that it seemed perfectly fine.

I had never before understood how a mother finds their child beautiful when it emerges from birth, shrivelled and in need to be cleansed, but looking past the murky covering, I stood in complete awe. This was a life. A child. A living, breathing, beautiful part of her, and a part of the man that she loved. Together, they had created something unique. Something that now claimed their undying love. The absolute miracle of life, waiting for noone, and on the time its Lord has decreed.

There are wonderful things all around us, that surround us and should inspire us. We are each miracles ourselves and we should be thankful for all it is that we have, despite the pain that we may feel. God sees each child enter this world, God will see each soul leave, and God is always there for us if we look for Him, whilst we live in whatever manner that we choose.

I pray for us all.

Stitched Tight

Cross-hatched in its weaves
As we look up from below
Where each lash curls inside
Stitched in hard to our throws,
From a blanket lined afar
Whilst a veil within our eyes
Leaves us blinded, to reach out
Burnt through down each phase,
And our calcified lies
Pour through a stitched glance
As we are once again born
In the darkness of dance.

New Beginnings

There are times when we run out of words, when all that we can do is sit back and enjoy their light, a noor not seen before, but will the silence be accepted as a part of who I am, when all that they may expect is the voice they hear ringing through.

I am afraid.

Enclosed

As we wait, the shrine of our prayers glides in fixed temptation upon our hands, as the softened strokes call for bliss, and vain glory waits for our return.

It remains as it always is meant to be, another test.

This one seems to be for me.

A Curious Line

It was a hardened fall that broke out each hollowed hope, and let time keep her distance as she seemed to grow down heavens guarded rope. But whilst no longer holding out, a turn of events started to build their place amongst the few that came and went. Dreams for the beginning to let the end build its career in unearthed fires allowed each shadowed figure to glance out from behind the lit and darkened desires. It was time to let go and to let the realities play out their play.

Watching from past lines, I bow down and take the stage for my own, as the ghostly hands applaud the night sky as it rains down in time to each mortal dance that I try. A dance that devours and the mind it enslaves, and drags memories out from deep beyond our hidden graves. And within the graves of sin, we let the dust settle upon our souls, twirling in time to the music, a melody of ancient times, long ago foretold. Awaiting for the signs, our lips struggle to find their place, as in each swinging line, we remain firm in each untold embrace.

And as we wait, the shrine of our prayers glides in fixed temptation upon our hands, as the softened strokes call for bliss, and vain glory waits for our return.

News

There lies a fury of emotion in each angled embrace, and yet the stillness lays within its midst.

And as they leave behind caged thoughts lined in face; in action, they start their ascent.

.

Surrounding them, hovers the hum to submit, a fire in their eyes as they drift

As softly breathed sighs speak volumes unheard, never writ; each stride hiding the truth that is meant.

.

From the prolonged overt to the hidden sides, each limb must work to resist

And learn to divert the flow from the guide, a depiction of a waited torment.

.

And as the fingers slide by, a quick glance left behind; we catch the last before it is missed

Enshrined in their parts of wistful reminders confined, accrued to a goal of content.

Until which therein of the long lines in the mind, the bearer shall do nought but repent..

Wrapped around

In fused submission
To the baser acts
In which we humans fall
Where the flesh cries out
For welded souls
And minds alike
In a heated embrace
And softened sighs
From a tightened grip
Hard in desire
And removed from the norm
Finally able to lay
Together,
In each others arms.

Realities

'The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it because it is only tangible ideas, concepts, beliefs and fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well they die; but things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on..'

Believers

.

Believers! Respond to Allah, and respond to the Messenger when he calls you to that which gives you life.

.

Know well that Allah stands between a person and his heart, and it is to Him that all of you shall be summoned.

.

[8:24]