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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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

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

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[8:24]

Brought Out

Layers beneath each cover

Within the contortion of smoothed lies

Inured to each cutting smile

A perversion drawn deep and wild

As a broken shard lays seed

From within and through each eye

And within each rising glance

Of faltering cries to the sky

Our hardened forms give birth

To the emptied depth defied

As in a cruel confrontation

We begin to live our lies

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And detached and forsaken

As a poise of lost intent

Wearied in our actions

And lost through each hidden scent

Of unrepenting scorn

Within each impregnated thought

Blossomed shards bleed through

Each sign severe as it ought,

Ought to have been left

And ought to be despised

But we come round once again

In a full circle upon our lies.

'Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself'

Disbelief

States of confusion and bewilderment coupled with apprehension and fear seem to be phases of living that is an experience endured my most at various points in their lives. The reasons are vast and the solutions never simple. We each hold our own worries and hidden secrets to which even our dearest remain oblivious to; the smiles hide frightened beats, ready to give us away if only we could share. But it is the only way to exist. A blanket upon our frames, a shade from potential lies. Alive behind a life.

Living in the form of our selves lets the opportunity arise for ones seeking eyes to stare back at us in contempt, dredging up the old, the forgotten and yet the very true realities. It has always been there, its presence murky, and its realisation only dawned upon now. Its apparent loss had been humbly yet confusedly accepted as an undeniable truth, but now that its existence is no longer buried deep, the old bonds regrow, a force to be controlled. As though a slap on the face, it is the shock that creates the fear and the curled intentions that bring to light the ruse; a cruel play.

When trust is no longer a witness to the all-encompassing embrace, it is the closest within our prints that have created their own hardened fall. Shall it bear witness to the failure of secluded desires, or shall it be the point from which we learn to fly?

After all, there are some who still can't help but give..

It is only known to me what lies deep within

A Reckoning

It was strange the way we spoke. The silence from before had disappeared and in its place had left behind an unholy hold, as though stroked by demons themselves into a terrifying obscurity from both sides to one, then none. Another scene. Another lie. A loosening grip on garbled thoughts, alone in the display through times, I watch and recoil from the earth filling the grave and look upon with hollowed laws of the blind. Dust settles upon each sunken root, their eyes askew, a view searing deep to the soul. A soul stretched out to the sky, twisting away from the grabbing hold of deepened sores, raw, unconfined and bold.

Maybe it was the night air upon my skin that sent the shivers far beyond each breathing layer of mind. It was that same touch that I felt, a shadow of emptied past. The same remembered fear which guides our whispers, direct in their cry and punctuated by each repeated fall.

It's frightening to realise how thin the line is drawn as we slip into states beyond that of which we can never know..

To Foretell Behind

I wake.

Unaware
Lurching
And reaching

A broken wait
Sifts through layers
Of an unending maze
Leaving behind
The forgotten remains
Lost to the fury of flight

Whilst ghosted hands find ravaged flesh
Of dreams undone
And loosened states
As the conscience barely wakes
From lidded eyes
Deep in a trance
Where shrouded emotion
Is lost to burning spines
Of bending moans
And cries divine
Until finally at rest
The heat settles again

Awake.

A future note to me..

Rediscovering our childhood through the innocent words of a child, my friend and I read through her diary, amazed at the world we could see through a perspective that appreciated the small and simple things in life. We rediscovered an outlook of the young where great importance is attributed to things only valuable to those still fresh in thought.

Reading through a collection of childrens' ideas, free and uninhibited, brought together from various ages and backgrounds, an idea formed and cemented that my future children (inshallah) will have their own book, a journal of their life. Their expressions and the words they use, the ideas they have and the things they hold dear to them, I want it all recorded, stored, and frequently sought, a refuge they adore, and a communication for them to learn. It shall be theirs to love, a memoir from an early age, and always their own additions through time.

By providing them with such a place, I hope that they will learn and appreciate more than what snapshots and videos may show them in later life of the days gone by. It will be an interesting read..

Lost and Found

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Engraved in wood
Within the lines of age
As the craft from birth
Takes attempt at rage
And through furnished thoughts
Guided by hardened palms
Rubbed raw, rubbed fresh
Do the grains learn calm
And as the roughened edges
Give rise to rooted soil
Each withering spark
Stands in feisty recoil
And in humble recognition
Of the outgrowth in time
The fire quenches all tinder
In resonance to fueled climb

And brought forth from the ash

In a yield of loosened earth

Followed are the lines

That trace from first birth

True in Colour

Whether it is being bombarded by media, or moaned at by teenage girls, there is no escaping the obsession that people have with superficial beauty. Beauty itself is a subjective term, but is extensively used in relation to the aesthetics and the fleeting pleasures that we often perceive.

To forget the immediate associations that we hold of the word, and to truly delight our senses, we must learn to see what our eyes cannot seek and to go into the world blind, any sight a blessing, and all experiences divine.

Submerge yourself in to a simple and innocent love where the winds ghosted trail, rains padded feet and the warmth of the touch of skin on skin softens your lips into a smile.

In doing so, we find the allure in the depth of character and the elegance of sincerity. Suddenly, we find that like the newborn in awe of the wonders it beholds, we gather around and hold dear, those who radiate a genuine and unaffected kindness with no arrogance in their gait and no mischief in their words.

I cannot conjure an image in my mind of any face that I have seen, unless I am remembering a picture from which I can attempt to recreate. I see it as a blessing, for the outside that we see is not what resonates its hold upon me, but it is the beauty within others that I remember and feel.

Perhaps it is time that we teach each other that there is only so much that bought products can do. It is the noor upon our faces and the grace that comes with the truth that is the true beauty that will never fade. It is not a matter of brown or white skin, but that of an enlightening view that it is in Gods gift that we remain, and only through self-realistion through the truth of His words can we shine.

But I guess we all want to be seen as beautiful, outside and in ;)

Henna Nights..

Two words: strangely terrifying..

When we are younger, we only see the glamour of what this night is with the brightly coloured clothes, the dancing and singing and a chance to enjoy a girl's party. But older and more aware, seeing the bride-to-be walk down the stairs, a friend i've known for years, and watching her hands shake at the prospect of the looming day to come when she goes away from everything that she has known her entire life, I have to wipe back the tears and can only begin to comprehend why.

The traditions and customs of the night make me cringe back from all that it is, a pointless exercise, a waste and all so wrong. It seems that for some, in starting a new chapter, it becomes unimportant to enter into it holding firm on to their faith and beliefs. Religion seems to be lost for the night and shame and self-respect are put on hold by friends in order to provide 'entertainment' pieces, leaving some in the audience appalled and with their eyes covered, whilst others will look on and applaud..

Should a compromise be made for the friends who although may not hold the same ideals, are friends nevertheless? When the time comes, lets see what decisions are made..

Secret Sorrows..

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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often at times we call a man cold when he is only sad


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Wise Wilde...

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He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.

Oscar Wilde
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A Lesson..

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They say the songs of the blind are sad because they show the listener things their eyes cannot see
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Too Light to Stay...

It is a choice that we make within the lifestyles we lead, to keep ourselves busy, absorbed and always haunted by the perpetual voices of what there is left to do. Therefore, it is only natural that to allow this deepening preoccupation to continue, in which we bury ourselves, we find that from time to time, we need a break, a refreshed view, ready to face it all once again.

The fact that it has become an obsessive necessity to submerge ourselves in a few days of peaceful rest away from our everyday norm, is an obvious sign that within the recesses of our quashed subconscious minds and souls, we are more aware of our original states in which we were made to walk this earth than we seem to accept.

It is time that accumulates, that weighs heavy upon our selves. It is within the time passed that we create our shield, our armour and our mask. And it is time that we leave behind. Her roped strands are gradually drawn away and all that is left is the dust carried by the winds.

Nested worries and rooted needs transform into states dealt with an ease and a natural flare. Emotions and ideas are no longer opposed but entwined in a union previously forgotten. A union that is the purest to be found.

And it is in nakedness that we return.

Unattached, unaware and floating newly born, it becomes easy to simply 'be'.

In lost forms we rise..

Within the traced lines
Upon my skin
I slowly lose the feeling of 'why'.

Remain blurred edges, of an existence before
Of the memories held close
And the fire within my blood,

Whilst a sculpted form drowns,
Only a ripple left in time
Draped in the mockery of lies.

And with each wavering stroke,
Crushed fingertips loosen their hold
Sinking in through their palms.

Grotesque and alone
A standing statment to remind
For those who start to forget..

A Transcript..

"Coincidences happen.. But what about the coincidences that brought me to you in the first place?

Einstein once said that coincidences are God's way of remaining anonymous.."

So strikingly phrased, it is a reminder of our intertwined lives and how destiny shall always play its role. Perhaps if need be, God shall hear our prayers to change what may or may not have been writ before, and with His blessings, nudge our paths to our dreams and let them join, unified, and complete.