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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 (13th February 2022) 
          
          burning soulmates, strained hopes; braided yearnings, captive dreams. passion- borne blood, water an invisible vesper; moon a poet's literature, soil a paper of hunger. a predator, a musketeer, a thunder; a matchstick, a street of bougainvilleas, half a nail lost, flesh to rust. 
          
          worn arms, ragged pleasures; clean madness, innocent errors. veins of solitude, beats of courage; a farewell to religious laps, to a moon with brave life. mistakes and spaces in ribs, hearts choking in sin; rhetoric trees and murdered portraits in lights of the quiet. 
          
          ashes of nursery amethysts, stories worth centuries within; glass of a new born fist, hope dangling over a pit of abyss. authentic prison, protection from  touches; suspended lungs, pessimism a curse blind. foetal hearts and shrunken graves, suffering mirrors and homely miscarriages. 
          
          evolution of art, sugar theft; white oleander tickles and bleeding disguises of virtues. a city of ciphers,  mountains of parables; consumed violins, bruises of metal and blood. to the eyes find that nothing old or worn, and for the hearts that see no flaws and prickles, there is no death. like the moon and the sun that have not aged; human hearts as these reside as the 'oud of time. 
          
           #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 (07th January 2022) 
          
          troubled by the chaos of the earth, weighed upon by the barren roof, struck by the canines of responsibilities, drenched in the ocean's cold. the warm clouds hiss at the burn from the morning rays, the nightingales dedicate a melody to the rustic waves. each day a older sun rises to a newer morning, and a weaker breath from the body. 
          
          armoured kites, papered hearts, monochrome schemes, lustred bones. pleasure of the pain, burden of what is gained; bruises of the moon and its light upon our veins, behemoth skies and its anger upon the land of sinners. rosed dishes, savoury bites, the wound of tomorrow a sacrifice for the smile of today. 
          
          missed are the terraces of the burnt lips, every dream of the passed breaths. what pricks the throat but the warm sip of the coffee that reignites the vessel of sorrows, like the tentacles of an octopus, the arrows struck. timeless breeze, the wash of the early morning a moon written lullaby; decorated sins, the pleas of the saviours etched upon tender greens. 
          
          powerful is the world, glorious is its stage. a mother it is; careful with its touch, destructive with its womb. one arises to the death of another, the loom of yesterday a gust of today; yarn tangled with the hems of life, in every lung a million lines. one is terrified of the other of its kind, but the moon has never felt threatened by the sun's strength. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (15th December 2021) 
          
          sealed hurricanes and harmonised years, cocoa pricks and battled fears; marmalade rays and a shy ball of fire, flickering hopes and nestled desires. in the roar of stretching beats and the silence of two shoulders, the sun hovers gently in the thunders, in the hours of the one left behind. 
          
          olive stars, mediterranean lamps; golden moon, tears unshed. perfumed death, barricaded twilight;  arrowed corals, ironical laughs. the deadly hour, sings little to light, ferocious with pallour, mighty with a mouth sewn. time hums a pattern, an embroidered tune, one for the passing day and another for the arriving death. 
          
          in the bed of bedlam, overpowered by stories of brown and blue, arms of dandelions, skeleton of oak, there rises against the land a squeak of solace, of wilting petunias and sighing birds. love is but an eye; a door to the city of Atlantis, in search of its rightful owner, that which resides right by its soft collar. 
          
          love a disease, cure a breeze; droplets of ice water, warmth like spring. it is scattered, like the rainbow's seven and collected like the moonlight. it is the hush of the horizon set aflame and the masses on earth enjoying the play. to love is to lose, to love is to live less with yourself. to love is to hold the moon close and the soul to the oceans. love, but in moderation, like the earth loves the seas and the forests. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (29th November 2021) 
          
          the sun dreams of mysterious hills, and one flower songs, and birds of haze and memorandums of souls. it eats away the aches of sore shoulders and creeps into alleys to awaken the rested roots. it baths the daffodils with butterfly breaths and wounds the hours with crimson fever. it adorns coloured oceans and mad skeletons, ruffles the hair with raven feathers. 
          
          in the fragility of the abandoned skins; of dense roofs and flickering frostbites, dull worship and tired skins, battlefield burns and turbulent knees, earth like ships and seas kneads the land into night's blossoming birth. the curse of the blood moon lingers in the drowsiness of the lungs, in the tales of the uncaught, in the weight of the suddenly lost. 
          
          toes divided into shells of pearls, like the petals of lotus sunken in dirt; the maps of mishaps a road of fortune, the world a swing, the sky a fingerprint. shadows of yesterday's soul in pages of twilights and dawns, the fatigue of the throat comforted by July dirt. morphed bandages and emptied wounds, cold wars and malestrom wolves; what is a home? too much comfort, too less love. 
          
          pollen of passion, a nectar of poison, the soil a drug, the earth tempted to throttle. foot prints grow deeper, the land becomes a thing of menace; if stuck for long, bodies get buried in basement sands, home like necropolis. 
          
          too much sun in the sky, the sun becomes a sin to itself. too much of the moon in the dark, the stars become a fleeting ocean on fire. too much life within soul, one loses the body to the dead. too much love in the heart, it gets clogged with its own red. in balance, life is hard. in extremes, it is deadly. live sparsely with bruised bones, today is home, tomorrow is a playground- like prison. 
           #adropofhumanity 

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 (23rd November 2021) 
          
          the sun falls upon the aretha of moments, decorating and brushing the edges with strings of silver feathers. the mellow pond speaks a tale, a fable of nine thousand glows and one of the rising  petals of dawn. 
          
          each man holds a sword to the night; a gleam of dancing echoes, a ferocious pilgrimage to the sublime stone. the tulips fall against the aging sea, bathed in turmeric and bits of achilles heel. what threatens it but a thing of love. what drowns is but a piece of land. 
          
          the war has submerged the scents of mind, deep in the bones of wheat fields. balance bothers the sky, numbers a human's intellect. what weighs and is weighted with words is never a feeling of flowers, rather a bridge of stone with the heart clogged into stone. 
          
          the stars on a palm's freedom would be briefly beautiful. in prison, however, like a forever depicted. the hands we have two, one for life and the other to choke, like flowers of divorce, the shades conspicuous of the lethal rides. 
          
          love from a distance, even from an unseen mouth, how distinguishable it is, how luring, as though a mother in devil. it comes from deserted feet and wallowing winds and ancient tombs, it comes from fogged graves and disloyal crimes and diminishing music notes. 
          
          true love is ridiculous, but so is life. from a distance, it smells like heaven's musk, like a glance filled with soft petals of dusk. but near, near to us, in us, never found. as though our soul lives far away from us. 
           #adropofhumanity