Under the chandelier

Diamonds rush with the speed of light
To create a silver chandelier of dreams.
Lovers dance under the glorious angel
For it heals the wounds from every angle.

The pure one hangs above our heads
Like the baby’s musical toys in his bed.
It’s a piece of paradise for us to please
Our eyes, freedom is beautiful tonight!

Photographers, let’s shoot the full moon!
Poets, let’s catch it with weaved silk webs.
My children, laugh when it follows you!
Werewolves, eat! it’s a feast of tasty ribs!

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Sad or sadistic?

Dead bodies fell from the sky like sweet rain would into the salty sea and the African orange peeks from behind the blues. It takes brave men to sacrifice themselves in unnecessary wars and it takes brave artists to admit that sometimes inspiration comes from the worst murders like this mass suicide.

A man in the horizon is crying, he has hair of waves and his lazy eye is the sun. Women in black and men in white went marching in lines through the thick water towards the sun to melt, to blend and to be.

If I can only stop to admire how beautiful this breathtaking horror looks but time does not exist anymore and that’s a shame. My sins are here for everyone to see as a carpet of red roses, and they scream as I walk on them and their blood flows underneath my feet to wash away, to wash off and to wash down.

The blind ones were lost between the giant swords, black feathers folded their eyes for us to know them and they danced on the sounds of the piano that played on our nerves, the generous man gave away his eye to the blind for them to feel fear again.

The Fire forced her presence and Arabian horses were born out from that fire to fly and take the children far away to their awaiting destinies beyond this pathetic life to start a new beginning with new ways to die for them to look forward to.

Great voices of echoes were spreading rumours about the naked sorrow in the grand theatre of life. Mirrors were surrounding us … Our stained truth was surrounding us. We only wore masks that were glued to our faces and they were torn off along with our faces but it was not an act at all.

A torn diary of a dead man

I refuse to hear the sounds of misery so I place my fingers in my ears … My eyes, however, how can I close them when they are the lucid witnesses of these crimes? They saw the unfair wrists pulling down the mistreated necks and the empty mouths are talking instead of speaking up.

Ropes are hanging down from our dead trees and dead men are sat on fire by the dancing red heads for their hands have only stolen their rights. You see, the scale is off balance and no one wants to give the law a call.

When the sinners are trying to make juice out of the wine our sky refuses to give us life. Now, is it fair when the pearls sleep in peace in their shells and our army of orphans are making sand castles? Am I misguided for holding my book of poetry in hope instead of the book of religion?

Don’t you bother … My ears are closed. You can only answer me when your mouth is empty but you can taste the salt in that orphan’s tears, your neck is being dragged in humiliation but you can look up to the sky that looks down on you, when you see humans burning but have no water to save them and when you can see through eyes like mine.

Sweet children

Yes I fancy those children, the way their imagination works is fascinating. He chases butterflies calling them magical fairies yet he releases them when they fall under his mercy. She cries on the crumbs of her crackers and calls them falling angels from the sky. She imagines the rain drops as soldiers being sent down to rest after a battle, so she dances under love trying to collect them on her skin to live in her.

He lays down to count the stars and says I’ll go there one day to play with them and perhaps shine like they do. She sneaks on her toes into my library; which she thinks is forbidden, to learn the secrets of life of course. They fear our cook; from her broad face that they compare with stone. They say she eats children and cook them.

I laugh at these scenes which they make. I only wish that the last one was not true. Yes, my angels are stars now in a far fairyland guiding soldiers to the secrets of life, that’s what I like to think.

Bedtime story

If only he hadn’t dropped the note … John Sevefaro; a respected man and a brain cancer charity founder is not what he seems. John , who is married to Katy Witherspoon, is the owner of the new science laboratory in town. They had three children together; Mary, Joseph and Noah in close ages from seven to ten. Ten and a half as Noah always said proudly. Katy is an art teacher in her children’s primary school and is loved by her other ninety three children.

Everyday she dives into waves of admiration by the parents and love from her students. They were both quite a couple; wonder makers. She would create Art pieces from nothing and he creates green paper to feed the eyes of his wife.

One day as the mother and her three little slaves were getting up to go to school, Katy felt sick and passed the duty to drop off the children to the husband. He was complaining at the door about being late since the ways are too different and the nice nosy neighbour has heard him so she offered to take them to school on her way to work.

They singed in the car together and she offered them candy and sugar treats, they were happy and that cheered her up after the divorce of hers. Seven hours had passed, so Katy called on the husband to ask him about the kids, were they polite? Does she need to punish them with face slaps? Her curiosity was boiling till he picked up the phone to tell her about the lucky day he had.

She went to the neighbour’s house to see if she brought them back but the old lady is gone and instead there was a paper on the door. Katy took the paper; it was a printed letter – ” I took your three children to an old friend of mine, they look beautiful in red; those angels. We told them that they have been chosen to sacrifice themselves to god. If only you saw the innocent looks on their faces! They were so happy as we tied them up from their legs. It was painless I assure you, we drugged them first then we murdered them. I threw the bones to stray dogs, made a wig out of your daughter’s beautiful shiny hair and we kept the tender meat in plastic boxes for us to cook and eat later. Love, Sandra.”

Katy choked and shook in fear then lost her ability to speak as she waited in shock helplessly for her husband who was really late. He came in finally with a smile of satisfaction on his face, he hanged his jacket and a little note fell out. She couldn’t speak … What would she say? She quietly picked up the note to read it and it had red stains and a meat cooking recipe. This morning she knew too little and this evening little did she know.