Search for a Lost Soul
On a single lonely night; I sought
To traverse the expanse of your soul
Finding the truth was the goal;
But regardless of the capacity of one’s might
It is irrevocably gruesome,
And most ostensibly right; this night
Will go to the borders of despair
Humble denigration will invoke thy fear
But the marrows of one’s odious being,
Will fairly insinuate odes to seeing
A simple curve on thine old countenance
To indulge one last time
In wilful abstinence; and breathe
And sigh and choke, as the servile mozo
Will extend forth his bod,
To inhale the bewitched smoke,
Of this wretched wretched world,
Where goodness is a curse,
Candour a malice, and honesty scarce.
Perhaps that is what he meant,
That shrewd mortal, so acutely went
And rendered: All that is rare
For the rare, in one’s advent
Tis not too late to forsake; to lament
The hollow existence so pathetically spent,
And seek a newer world, a brighter horizon;
For how long can dreams bear earthly compromisin’?
A Leap of Faith
Behold! For the night solemnly brings,
That prudent subtlety in many a genteel things;
Some ardent glow in thine restless wings;
To liberate oneself of earthly clings.
And the flickering blotches so passionately scream,
Of untrodden paths towards long fathomed dreams;
Beseeching thee to attain jittery gleams;
To plunge headfirst into unnerving streams.
T'was always such a remarkable sight,
To witness belated epiphanies in the dead of the night:
For the dauntless soldier to catch his long due flight;
And put to rout his self-afflicted plight.
All that is in virtue can only be truly obtained,
When these tormenting notions are rightfully drained;
To create an equal ground for the damning and the damned,
Pursuing heartless desires towards the edge of the sand.
And the prospect, it is so hauntingly delightful;
To inhibit the obtrusion of the scrupulously insightful,
And seek that faint spark long reigning frightful,
To drown oneself in the waters seemingly spiteful.
For it was never too late; to retaliate
Against the throng that so indistinctly exists; to negate
The spurious impediments in thine own fate,
For the destiny that had long ceased to await.
A Taste of Vengeance
The night mist shifts upon the vacant steps,
That support the sinister trance pursued,
By the portentously uptight balustrade;
And screams of occurrences long ensued.
Briskly they walk, her bare quicksilver feet;
Towards destinations painstakingly concealed,
And her mind, it encases a million thoughts;
Like the last cloud before storm that fails to retreat.
She possesses no doubt; her eyes are akin,
To the boiling rage of the Viking blight,
And swiftly she twirls, her dagger in delight,
To break the rotation of the abominable sin.
And the dagger, so lustrous in the eerie moonlight;
Bursts to impart the tranquil revelation,
Of the nefarious ruse so coyly deliberated,
As a simper ascends her face in vague penetration.
Contiguous she lies, with bated breath;
The vicious spark igniting ablaze;
That long due inferno in her eyes so harsh,
The closer ye behold, the less ye shall gaze.
And the blood, the sweet Celtic blood!
Flows so seductively over his long dead corpse,
The relish altering to rapture; for the time
Has come to bid adieu to the sordid thorpes.
Ariba Pasha: "I intend to use my words to make my mark in the world, and have a strong desire to live each day, unapologetically. Poetry truly is the language of the soul and I want to use it to transfer the beatings of my heart on paper."
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