She drinks portions of thoughts everyday, With these hefty coals she heaps; Makes headway, Humming her music on the march to Survive. Eager and doubtful,

He made dirt of her Nothing like God’s craft Battered her Then bed her sore, bruised and swollen It didn’t matter The Priest had said,

Hobbled in an untrodden trail, Rough and tough, Amidst the sandy storms, Across the fiery flames, Felt feeble and fed-up, In the pursuit of peace,

Oh veils, what are you hiding? Behind those walls, I suppose , there’s a garden, waiting to be explored, to be discovered, to be written

Why does it feel like the sky, is sending me a message? A hidden letter with every raindrop, drop by drop, it falls, impossible to

In the line of sight We watch the horizon, As it has no age No enemies No deceit And no confusion.   We see from

Beauty often time eludes  A manifest beauty it is not Plastered in turmoil and tragedy It reeks of frustration And bears a mark of fear

I hear the casket close, Shut tight for one last time For my face to be forgotten Or to remain within someone. I hear the

My father sleeps with an atlas, Each night a vacation To the Seattle opera Where melody becomes his religion Changing prayers of light To soft,

    I   In a novel she chose to read, she buried her face, While the night seemed to her longer than usual. The words

Trapped amidst towering pernicious trees, Skin soaked and bone burnt, Dribbling saliva down his chin, Hollowed and cursed, he waits. Trembling legs and clenched fist,

Walk, Road ahead, The leering hyenas waiting, To taste a piece of meat, They are thirsty, Rolling tongues, I can see. A nasty stare, At