Fear.

Fear.
It gnaws at my throat, gripping, grabbing, ripping and clenching.
Tightening my wind pipes, squeezing my breath, I look round hoping it won’t come to collect.
Collecting my hopes, my dreams, my love for you; it never left, it’s residue lingering on the fringes of my faith, I cry in anxiety, calling out to God. Free me, hold me, keep me close, don’t let him take me and don’t let him collect.
The dark place.
That place where the soul lingers, gasping for light, seeking its might.

Don’t let it collect; remaining fragments of love, hope and years of ache, the small pieces of glass, broken, some mended, always cracked.
Don’t collect.
Fear, how real a transformation of the abstract.

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Beyond Faults

Love beyond all faults, My friend.
Who knows which one of your faults, may turn the Beloveds face away from you?

So remember, to Love beyond all faults,
for only Love can teach and Mercy can rectify.

Live in His spirit,
Love beyond all faults.
My friend,
you were once lost too.

Soldiers of War

The quiet murmurs of the soldiers,
Whispering into the night – watching and waiting in front of the enemy line.
On the opposite side, they whisper and stutter, looking above hoping for the heavens to thunder,
Silently praying, again standing on the enemy line,
Both sides of soldiers quiver,

Shootings, killings, too much death; how much more is there to wonder?

They sink in deep, feet firm, shoulders shaking,
Who’s the enemy who’s the foe?
They both loose out, each side swearing their fighting for their righteous cause.
What cause?
Death evades no soul.
Still holding on tightly to their guns and swords,
Who’s blood will fall more?
Is anyone’s blood worth really worth more?
A few question an hesitate, They look around, knowing everyone here is the bait.
The first shot aired, They both know now, there’s no turning back, from the devils lair.
March on. March on.

Death will taste each and everyones Soul.

At This Particular Time

So many things that go through my mind,

At this particular time,

Surrounded by your awkward lies,

 

I sink.

There’s no more rhyme,

Anymore,

In my hollow lines.

Culture

Freshly ground spices, the smell lingering, the only sense of comfort,
She wanders through her kitchen, trying to make sense of her feelings,for the first time.

In and out, waiting for the aroma to settle, she sighs and quietly groans,
Simmering in her bones, the culture shock, she doesn’t know how to truly feel.

Noone around, no one here to witness, there is no appeal.
For her.

The anguish of the separation kicking in as she stops to stir,
Under her hand the melting pot begins to burn.

Oh how different, she thinks to herself.

How she wishes, she was back there, again,
In the land of content, life and real fresh air.

Are We Fictional Characters?

I believe:

We are all fictional characters, of this realm/in this realm, of social constructed realities, ironically which attempt to teach us a way to lead a non-fictional life.

Yet, at the same instance submerge us into a fictional world which surrounds, controls and overpowers us through so many elements. Whilst having such a strong hold on each of our superficial demons and in turn ultimatley leading us to being the reason of our fake constructed fictional personalities.

Ask yourself as I have just asked myself:

Who or what are we really but a form of clay which willl return to dust one day…#Question

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