Symphonic Sin

Stripping amid the chaos in the journey leading to reason

No questioning where grace had fallen

Grace or faith – beware multiple thoughts induce confusion

Stars in the skies shall erase the glooms of illusions

My heart’s unrest temporarily sedated

Bidden welcome by my beloved music

Reminds me of Him albeit the ancient promise of delusions

A believer could not wander around with faith so delusive

Fragmented between devotion and music

Could music really steal away devotion?

Devotion is parentless in a poor assessment

You are either a devoted believer in worshipping God or His music

I am a worshipper of God – music lies among my rituals

Would I be a hypocrite to give in to the enchantment of his creation?

I am a creature in love with another creature

Together we prostrate sublimely to our Creator

A Sufi combines no love of any creature with the Most Gracious

Music is one way to mercy which He offers ardently spacious

My heart is a wonderland in a human box

You’d see midgets and giants racing or in harmony

Constantly rides a carousel of emotions and careless whispers

Don’t chuckle at my strife – yours next I see coming from a short distance

Violin stick plays upon my heart thousand melodies of pain

You may hear them from a distance shedding mayhems

Don’t be fooled by my grizzly chanting

Humming is what plays in the background

Affirming failure or perhaps handing a tourniquet to the bleeding poet  

Humming sounds like drumming of warfare waits to breakout

Alien troops marching to the land long peace-deprived

No … No … No

Cast out those monstrous fears – soon to eat your conscience alive

Dance along with the wolves in the pitch darkness of your nights

Clutch at a straw when the waves of the crazy ocean reach their highs

Float in space with your music until your soul lands peacefully in the Most Gracious’s skies

May K.

P.S. preferably read while listening to this tune

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Water

If I had the liberty to choose prior to my creation – I would be water – the liquid, the term, the definition, the force and the feebleness.

I would be abundant and scarce – steep and deep –  rain, hail and overwhelm, contain – never contained, rush and sweep – shallow and deceptive – enliven and kill – freeze – melt and boil.

Only time controls me – temperature never withhold me.

I would run in the fields racing against the wind – challenging the heat of the sun to hurry immerse the lands before it dry up and ruin the tired man’s harvest.

I would drown the traitor and float the believer.

There will be times I am pure and times I stink. There will be times I am smooth as silk and times my roars frighten the king of the jungle.

There will be times I’ll be greater than any other creation on earth, even the giants of mountains I bear them in my boundless belly and eat them, slowly.

Man knows its only a matter of time.

I’ll be the intruder, the earth’s indispensible partner.

I’ll be the world’s hooker quench whoever pays fat and better.

I will fail to live up to my end of the bargain, I dry, I disappear – they shed their blood over me and I keep vanishing,  as much as I will flood far beyond man’s capacity.

I rush – keep rushing to where those thinking creatures can’t trace me or detain me or drink me or bottle me or pollute me.

I am free and shall remain that. The only reason I can’t satisfy them is I’m bloodless, soulless.

I am only water…

May

The Forbidden Dance

In love with two men – a man of god and the devil’s imposter – two faces of a coin – salvation pressed in eternal slumber beneath the grip of human-like-monsters –  accuse me not of cursing converts – I had listened well to their murmurs – all for god or so they pretended – forbidden fruit is what they made of me – chasing my scent in every alley – strayed by desire from piety – murdered innocence by their dysfunctional self-righteousness – I am taking the blame for my choking affection – they suffocate under my velvet grip – they confuse me with redemption – criticize my imperfections – omitting the holes of filth in their humanly characters – perhaps I am drowning in the realm of my imperfections – what does it make them – holy ghosts floating in translucent justice? – I’m a forbidden mercy on the land of curses – the vapor condensed in their merciless weathers – I cry them silence in north facing rivers– end up crucified on ice bergs and mountains of their unforgiving creed / unjustified vengeance – they hate me so much when I’m only a dancer – forbade my swaying in spaces of a risk diver – took my hands like a lady in a ball room – suddenly dressed like fighters – whirling in circles of my self-loathing frailty – in a total collapse of honor left a heart so mournful – the wait is so bitter – aging patience beneath my organs – turning ancient like the biggest of the pyramids – it is not the wait rather my honor – my pride – my heart – my youth – my GOD I am only human – I am a soul forbidden to love by their command – who has the final word on this land – I know I am tested – those prayers were never answered – thankful as I can only be – a solitary dancer in an audienceless theatre – the happiest of endings it must be – than hovering around happiness with love gangsters and Hollywood hero-wanna-be’s.

 

Inspired by the soundtrack of the turkish tv series “Forbidden Love”

 

 

The Heart That Lives / Burns

Hallucinating again in the vast abyss of the night

Squashed by a train of memories

Slain on the tracks bringing hopes to the land of naught

Life churns out liveliness beneath my heartbeats

I wonder why is life such a faithful mate

I am forced to stand up…collect my invisible scattered portrait

I am lurking at the corners of lust in a pessimist suit

Contemplating the walls in case they may talk, or walk, or just collapse on me

Then I would celebrate my death under the walls of my illogical dreams

How many times had they fallen and rebuilt themselves on my ruins?

It is just my poor attempts to live which cannot make me die

I hang beneath the squeeze of the two lines

So fine it chokes the life out of me…yet I am still alive

Breathing the lies they fume in my hollow atmospheres

They lit in my heart like candles … it is the usual outset

My heart is full of forever burning candles

It is burning!!!

It was the light I thought guided me through the pathways to the land of promise

It is the promise which I countlessly conquered

Now it is the fire eating all residue of reason

My heart is only a big stony lump of charcoal

Burning anytime you fest on a Barbecue season

I am fragmented … shaped in an unshattered whole

Sleeping wounds under stacks of hay

Fling open at the most fainting sound of a holler

My wounds are my recruited soldiers for a chronic pain

I had sworn to endure the severity … never show a sign of dismay

It wouldn’t matter if I scambled my way all through my life till death is my gain

I am the heart that survives seasons anew like when spring matures in May

Thought the most fitting is Clint Mansell’s genius track of The Fountain

Behind Closed Doors

Behind closed doors I stand locked in myself and out of freedom

In my heart a restless desire to uncry the tears I shed like cheap blood

The blood shed in the fields of slaving honor

Only my silly thoughts stir excruciating boredom

In the hearts of the ones I mistakenly sought emancipation

Too much sharing is my ugliest of habits

I admit as I kneel … that is my guilt

Floating in the glooms of the sad ones

Unsheathing my sword in the face of wounds cut by the Qadar

They are not my wounds … they belong to the other

I fight and fight to realize it is my own Qadar

Waiting in the dark for another exorcism

Deafened by hisses of the immortals of the genies and the devils

Waiting on them to come

In flesh they appear out of none

I am confronted by an army of devils of them and mine

Is it enough to use my sword and my verses combined?

I am only human in the face of ancient burning fire

Would I need a bleeding wound to put out their hateful flaming desire?

I am torn between the book I hadn’t savored and the verses I randomly memorized

I loathe my ignorance and their victorious satire

As I sit here in my self-loathing attire

Conceding my soul … a surplus gain to what they originally acquired

Guess I am too generous with my blessings

The taste of my peaking self-controlessness … vehemently they are devouring

I am drowning in a rustful hole of my own faith

I aspired to be the warrior in their battles

Forsaken mine…Damn! I took the bate

I fell a helpless victim in my own battle to which no one came to save

A dear price only a failing intruder could be doomed to pay

I lie on my poetic chair mourning the fading glow beneath the weeping willows

Listening to the moans of torture mixed with the screams of flying ravens

In my solitude sculpting my lacking faith

On a deep rooted ground years have not yet completely swallowed

  

Fabulous violen piece by Jessica Yeh…

Awaited Love From Above

Even demons gave up drifting this silly yearning apart

It would rather be stupid to think we can restart

A story has turned not the way I planned

What can a drunk with love someone do?

Only ancient memories keep me in the row

Deliberately homeless yet unlike the ones who have no home

I’m calling on divine mercy to carry this pain away

This lingering…this waiting…this hopelessness so far away

Heal this broken heart soaked in deep yearning

For special someone… not listening … perhaps  no longer among the living

His shadows abandoned my sight

This chase is a curseful plight

Guilt has captured my pride

Sometimes hope plays about my soul

Wake up to find myself so left behind

My God! I’m drowning in an ocean of my self-woven illusions

Wrapped in a fire burning chain of aoristic conclusions

Lost my way in a maze of unrealistic solutions

Discarded your signs and here I am begging for your Most kind re-intrusion

Guess I need a miracle to undash those ruthlessly grinded dreams

By those storming soldiers of so-called-love and their unforgiving techniques

Unarmored good will was my last fleet

In a war of who dies first of this disease

My war tactics thought it maybe too late to retreat

My total defeat for which I stand solitary to greet

In this carnival of damage they left complete

My Lord, if only you accept my prayers and my pleas

Send this heart to an unshattering ease

Circumambulating in your galaxy of love

Is all what your poor slave out of this life mostly craves

By your love your slave is content and ample pleased

 

 

Listen to this sensual tune by Enya – Only time

p.s. Time in Arabic also means God.

Painting Her

I lied to her – I will never stop. Her ceaseless rejuvenating power of forgiveness entices my evilness to take over me and her virtuousness.

Now I am alone, but married to that woman long enough that I despise her and myself for being the idiot of the year, even the idiot of my time, yet to be crowned.

I met her on the street; her inability to comprehend my language never discouraged my twisted intentions to finally decide to be with the wrong woman for the third time.

It is hard to believe I cut all the miles from uncle Sam’s to the Pharaonic desert rose to fall in love with a woman and end up with another; things that divide us are more than what unite us. I still married her. It only took one night after marriage to realize all I needed was sex, when only a one night stand could have saved me from falling into a brand new fiasco.

The night’s over and all I could think of is the woman I still ache for. Looking at my wife’s face reminds me of another stupid move I made drove me away from happiness. I see her in my wife though. I kiss her and make love to her constantly. She doesn’t know but I do…she doesn’t feel but I do. And that’s enough to do.

She thinks revenge was my attempt. I let her believe so she doesn’t scorn my animality. I am too fragile and desperate for something, it’s the only thing I cannot paint nor foresee, like fate.

I look back on the days when I could call myself “happy” and as much as my heart is filled with remorse, I enjoy hunting her all over again. She’s my breath of fresh air, as well as my prey, my slave, my power, my passion, my muse, my portrait, and my only lover. I love her, endlessly and I couldn’t be more hateful.

I hate her defiance, her strength, her overwhelming love for me. She walks out of the room, I am defenseless. I stand infront of her, when our eyes meet I am electrofired. Her passion blazing eyes fray my will to resist her. Shockingly, her pride belittles me and all I see is a little boy looking up to his mother… fails to reach her resolute shoulders.

It is not fair to be the butcher and the slaughtered at once. History doesn’t forgive nor will the future, and my present atopped with the curse of sinning. I am sinful, alas, joyous. What do I need it for? I had her right in my hand…guess a clench of my fist is all it should take.

She fits well in my arms. She feels safe in my embrace, the very one that betrayed her, like my brush fails to paint her. Yes, I want to paint her. How ironic! A woman of her kind can’t flourish in my painting. Her challenging dignity impossible to conceive beneath my lines… too coarse for my brush to obey.

I want to be inside her, around her, God I want to be her. I look at her and envy God’s creation for she embodies perfection; my kind of whore and saint, at once.

She has the gift of timing, never too loose- never too tight. She likes to dance between the lines, my type of dancer. Yet moves too fast for my pace, supernaturally, I cannot catch her. Maybe after all she’s not earthly.

I think I’m drowning in the realm of her forgiveness, and more of my self. The memory of fighting which I’m lacking has no reason to retrieve. I enjoy being the clown, play the two faces of a character, mocked by some and feared by others.

I’m her Satan of that I’m aware, yet the answer to her unfulfilled prayers. She carries me in her heart and keeps dripping bitterness. It’s the remnants of all hope I savaged in her.

This wound won’t heal – do we want it to heal? I know she can’t and I don’t want it to be healed. If I’m her cut – she’s my cactus. Mistakenly grew a flower in a desert soil and all I have is cactus. Fed by thoughts full of her, my solace, midst the heat of the perfect loneliness I’ve come to banish myself into, and my thriving wish to finish her.