It grew old and it went cold till it collapsed and it was no more

Clouds of dust gave birth to a star.
A star that is not yet charted …
It is born by prayers from wars,
to wish upon for the good hearted.

The star kept glowing for time …
Giving light in the absolute darkness.
It stopped trying for it is a waste, a crime
to be unappreciated by the heartless.

There it was abandoned left to die …
To face the fate of being a black hole.
It kept weeping and wondering why …
Why has this had happened as whole?

The moon said to the black hole:
“You are still a star to me.”
… “Look into my dark soul …”
… “All what is in is gold to see!”

“I am the absence of the light,
I am the silence of the night.
All I do is pull, clutch and take,
and there is no decision to make.

I blend with the darkness as one,
isn’t it funny how I love the sun?
The sun does not agree with the moon,
and it won’t change its mind any soon.

The sun says that I am the reality.
A reality that shattered its dreams.
I am the example of abnormality,
not the queen of love realms.

Everyday I am blown away …
With the heat of its explosions!
The sun is there to save the day …
With warmth and devotion!

One day the moon will break.
The earth will start to shake.
The sun will melt and fall,
and I will swallow it all.”

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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.

The falling and the rising

Words are sculptured from stones and emotions are expressed from roses, yet the meaning is lost in the falling rivers of hell. How can I tell the long night about my nothings? Shall I sing and be heard through the broken lock? What a rusty voice … I have been silenced for a long time by the scratches in the walls.

The crying child inside my eyes, whose wrists are suffocating from chains, can be heard and so is the old broken lady who is melting in the boiling blood in vain. My hollow soul splashes in grey and as it rains sorrows I choose to feel nothing. How can I write about nightmares that begin with a creak?

How can I tell stories about the evil eye watching me through that keyhole like a circus freak? Dark smoke flows in the pupils of my eyes staring back at me in that mirror which draws me into my fading self. Pain peaks, pain smoothly slips on his toes through the cracks like a diamond thief. My demons are playing music in the ruins and it’s keeping me tamed as heat escapes along with those frozen emotions whom I blame.

I hear crashes waking up the sleep and I see flying ashes making screaming faces at me. The numbers are escaping the clock running away towards infinity and the shadows whom I used to hunt are haunting me. The sky made firestorms of insanity which are ripping my house up and breaking it down. I stood alone and wept until the Phoenix emerged and gave perfervid love to my beginning.