new

a small token of kindness (22nd March 2022) 
          
          the tears of the pianos,  graves of sunken breaths; courageous sins, museums of agonies. hymns of homes, suffocated lungs; limited heartbeats, life of a quarter. coffee crowds, memory ghosts; mad touches and fragmented routes. veins avoided, night inspirations; apathetic ambiguities, rainbow tinges. 
          
          lonely embraces, curtained eyes; a void of white and a concealment of dewy pride. today deaths and tomorrow births; pigeon wings and the delight of darkened blood. stained apologies, glass sermons; reincarnated knees, candle shelves. shells of fantasy, pigmented treasures; halls of power, wolf of lust. 
          
          blue and flowers, emerald and topaz; grass of laughter, velvet hold. ink of spine, ocean depths; numbing praises, sugar- like rust. a shard of grief, a war of sickness; a woman of one, a woman of million. a broken petal of grace, a shade of march; a human beneath it, a prisoner on its soil. 
          
          mint foam, sweetened moonshine; honey blades, dark grains. foxes of faith, wings like knives; a mirror that looks, a mirror of judgments. year of beds, unmade sheets and blankets; biscuit crumbs; lungs left in black pockets. a suspended leaf and a heart of migration- where has it been held? it has merely been left to the vultures. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (18th March 2022) 
          
          a rose from thorn-like death, a stone of heart and a comb of hell, a marker of prejudice, a hall of fright, 
          destiny clad in archer's arrow, a moment of pride, kith and kin, lies, lotuses and legacies, foreign homes and ginger tragedies. 
          
          fragile skins and paper cuts, laws martyred, twilight sun; clinking pedants, olive guilts; dusty hands and blackberry fingertips. autumn of march, buried hopes; leaves lost to skin, a ground of boiling blood. pear yearnings, spring of fall; cavalier sun and half moon echoes. 
          
          marionberry garnet and ruby hearts; fire-like worship, drowning soils. mulberry blood, violent rugs; gardens of night, orchids of flesh. congested wounds, salted shores; lakes of tourmaline, valleys of balsam. bread and sanctuaries abandoned,  cinnamon paper and ochre canvases. 
          
          deer-like details, fogged empathy; rosary of the waves, prayers of the cliff of throat. bruised knuckles, clay air; riverbed séances, grief burns. crescent universe, a child's veil; rosy vessel, magnolia dirt. whether soaked in water or blood, a heart behind the ribs is still a prisoner in a prison. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (08h February 2022) 
          
          vanilla tides, porcelain skies; insurgence of the ganges and anatomies birthed in the womb. lavender pulses, foxgloves of disappointments; afternoon intoxications and stings of moon's salted craters. covenant slippers of sweat, storms of acidic sin; limbs of serenity, heart a serpent's spine. 
          
          wandering knees, furnace meadows; prairie blades, malbec- blurred palms. atlases of ribs, the eyes a stoic bleeding blues; firmament of human organs, the universe a galaxy with it. violent emotions, frigid compromises; people water, their bones abandoned orphans. 
          
          kolkwitzia like the thames, fossils of fame; life a cloak of melancholy, unlike death, of invisibility. today a parlour with letters wordless and addresses of silhouettes blind. nascent blooms and dainty gravel; how much of the truth kills one each day, how often does one lie to not develop resentment to himself? 
          
          febrile offsprings, universe a glory of margaret ache; home a graveyard, ages and agers buried. an emblem of bones, a cremated constellation; mind instructed under a veil, sky a chest of God. sun and the moon, a mind of two names; sisyphean creations, limited incantations. why is the sky allowed two wings, why must a human heart be caged with none? 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (04th February 2022) 
          
          hazel sparks, tragic seams of a sweater upset; courtyard apples, seeded candles. glazed accidents, tempered solitude; tears of strangers, knives of kin. despised palms, courageous cheeks. brittle mango, candy windows; purposeful black, golden august. tattood bone, bonfire salt; rainbow cracks, sunset acceptances, littered letters, raw sins. 
          
          lily fragments, lotus silhouettes; mirrored solace, heart a plague of the soul. azure ache and sandy water; little grace and a life foolishly slaughtered. seas of summer, dirt of december; butterscotch reminders, crescent veiled infants. foul forests, mindful witches; innocent flesh, disaster rest. 
          
          forged caves and buried minds, dry heroes and coloured knights; cigar feathers and absent mothers; clumpy claws and bleeding wombs. "survival of the fittest", moon distant from vultures; exhausted children, sick homes. voweled fog and  redwood roots; gazpacho lips and palimpsest sorrows. 
          
          ravine neighbours, nestled creeks; nebulous insomnia, moon an enemy of sleep. preserved steps, earth a castle; knuckles a home of citrus rind, shredded skin and cold wings. february cabin, urn burnt; syrup of the lungs, plum murmurs. the precious wounds we carry as a museum of art, we hold hearts in our palms; but what of all who wound them whenever they shake our hands? does the sky hand the moon to the earth? why then are we devils to our own skin? 
           #adropofhumanity 

ممكن تتابعين روايتي وتقوليلي رايك لو سمحتي

a small token of kindness (25th November 2021) 
          
          fangs of fortitude unmask themselves from the rays of the sun and buckle in tenderly to a musty memoir. maternity remains, in most of its stages, within the sky's blends; like soft lather from a coffee's gaze. what is meant to be forgotten sticks around in the climate of the mind, as though music from piano's striking stars. 
          
          watch and catch, hold and explore, what the jewels of the night sing as a prose; as a reminder of its stretched solitude, from one bit of its existence to the rest; marks of slippery injury and sweat upon its body. much it begs for, dark after dark, in trillium twilights, in coffee-lit sunsets, in flickering frostbites and mourning mangroves. 
          
          in the obliterated shores of the abandoned seas, of the golden sand marked with diabolical tongues of caramels, there are present gleams of faded beginnings and unstrained marks of life's plannings. unbearably beautiful it is; they hold onto the fury of the waves and wishes the sea goodbye. 
          
          things that can lure the air into desolation, by their side and beside their gaping heart, are those black with loneliness. cradle the pink veins of the foetus with the thick knot of the placenta around it; a momentary connection between life and its second form. it is alone there, the new heart, in its own pool of sorrows. 
          
          every so often, it is apparent and seen, the mind making connections with several violins; and the foetus an instrument rare to hold. many a beats a heart uses, but none can it find close enough to even see. prettiness is a state of solitude; like a cloud of beauty but nothing to rely upon. and the stars that hang all night without a bed to toss upon. 
          
          mind is easy to befriend, like a balm of butter. it is the heart that is blackened with solitude, a universe mistaken as an enemy's ground. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (24th November 2021) 
          
          the veteran sun holds close the magenta rage; traces of maternal spine and a shadow of the constricted girl in a woman gulped by slaughterers. raspy words and kites of innocence, demanding notes and pastel shaded envelopes; a finger slashed with extravagant remorse. the morning king wraps a shawl around the human's mind, in a fire, wherein it burns to history and earth. 
          
          upon maturation, the queen of a every knight, flickers its snowflakes over the velvet-like pride of forests and flowers, lovers and lies. many then are torn down to serenity, their skulls exposed to burning tears; the moon an acidic hue. soft parlors of stars etched upon lips of beautiful fury; muddled reflections of an anxious devil and a heart wet with faith's dewiness. 
          
          hands and fingers stuck in cold windows, in the society's concept of a prejudiced prison; wrung by the stomach and hung by the heart, flung into the air like a sea's wild swan. mouths of rain and hearts of manners, time of today and aches of tomorrow; whirled between eternity and death of every second. 
          
          realisation has dissolved into thin earth, minds now poisoned by the devil's apple. run and run while glued to the present, die and die succumbing to the gone nights in the future. vessel of brass brimming with age, bodies and souls molested by suppressed veins. 
          
          we run; we run fast with names, we run as if to catch death, as if to slaughter the days. we run as though to hold the passed breaths, the warm liquid of yesterday in our palms bare and the beats of journeys scratched into nails. we run as the sun does behind the moon,  but never once sit back against the trees of time and watch home unfold with our blood of present smiles. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (21st November 2021) 
          
          the light of November's sun is that of a sinful sunset, with pine needled preaches and nocturnal nostalgic nostal. death is a conduit of life, the sun a kiss of eternal life. where it thrives, where the storm blooms with bones, where the flowers cherish the obsidian raging with blue; the sky a constellation of ivory palms and forged children. 
          
          the steam of the moon's mind is but a gentle ray, its wounded woman a warrior of porcelain blood. what it protects, what is gives, and how much tumult we return. the power of a thousand springs against a winter fueled by graceful wildfire. 
          
          oceans and glasses under the gaze of crystal, the walk of a bangled dandelion along the whispering waves, words of worship, a call of submission to the floating nerves. barefooted youth, a place of massacred mind and hopeless happiness. the seas understand, they have found your shadows and have preserved them in flights of beads. 
          
          whether day or night, the sky shines with pride. like a little water and a bit of salt make up an ocean,  war and a bandage make up a human. light is light, whether pink or purple. each has a station in the universe, a homely hug, and every one has a place destined together, with unity, like a rainbow. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (9th November 2021) 
          
          far down the path of ironed atrocities, there is a spectrum of truth that burns a bit; a fire ignited to turn either to blueberry bliss or a to a bath of butterfly burns. world melts down to passionate poverty, an altar with ancient rhymes drawn into the skins of poetical ghosts. heavy is the mind with the tracks of the bygones, the sun a shamless reminder of the presence of trail marks. 
          
          under the terror of the flammable summer, the nights a healing blue, the Neptune stars take control; souls seized by swirled skins of pearls and golden hues. much of the world has left, much of it returned to the footprints of the birds and the claws of the buried Pharaohs, yet the whispered honey of bees remains desperately against the beats of a heart; clogging it with December's call of rebirth. 
          
          life is lost like the yellow twigs of a snowflake earth, sucked into oblivion, into a pool of its own existence. there is under the eyes, a layer of ornamented vapours of esoteric marmalade, a thickness of the season's clock tricking the eyes into a cropped sorrow; the lamp of happiness a gift of permanent punishment. 
          
          in itself, the sky is a motherless child, a little fawn with a pair of uncertain eyes. all alone, in the gardens of precipitated tears, a privy rainbow of late blooming shadows. where there are only hypothetical muffins, pages of crisped cold breath and falcons of mystic regrets. 
          
          perhaps that is why there are stars and clouds in the sky; to draw your attention, to bring you to its remembrance. to grow stale with you, in sunsets and in dull nights. to wash the world with your own dirt and to define the road with an ink that echoes. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (8th November 2021) 
          
          the clock of russet leaves and almond wings rouses the sun with a flick of pumpkin coffee; a race with the futuristic tragedies and constellations of adulterated secrets. what lives in it, a cage. and a pair of weeping hands that struggle to shroud the prisoner with a silken petunia. 
          
          and in the nights, the moon scrambles through the fisted stars; the mesh a séance of the gemmed fascinations. what appears is but a nonchalant melancholy, an ivory girl dressing the dark with its daisy's crescent. however, what does not meet the swallowed orb is the scene under the nose; only the tip of the ice berg. 
          
          within the vacancies of the oceans is a void of the laid laws; of the buried losses and alive tongues. what is reciprocation, what is history, but a repetition of the molded lie, of a flower set in Iguazu's mouth; the one that is drowned each day, every year, under the sparrow's sea. what is present is a pulchritudinous loss, clothed as freshly plucked darkness; held in a mother-like womb. 
          
          royale roses and blood baskets are a testament of the sky's shoulders and the heart of a human a casket of moon freckles, guarded in red vessels. how does this organ then be a coast of calm? why does the rib hold it at a knife's point? 
          
          the heart seeks what defies gravity, the luminous sin from a frosted envelope. it is not dirt that settles, rather a flamingo that grazes the pebbled waters. hold it, mold it, like the sky that shapes the sun and conceals the moon. perhaps that is what the aim is after all; to break the singular mass in you and reform it into the shape of universe. 
          
          for you are just half a heart, incompletely constructed. like the sun and the stars that are half of the skies and half of you. 
           #adropofhumanity