The Passion of Time

like marauding asteroids
invading a planet drifting off-course
in the impenetrable latitudes of space,
unforgiveness holes burrows 
in our minds, making hate and grief
whistle through the serrated holes,


and like that, the soul dries up,
cracks like a whip and hisses at itself
like a threatened viper when loneliness
sends notched, shadowy wraiths
into the chamber of conscience.


pardon me, my reader.
i just drank a very strong wine. so
my thoughts have become inflamed
by a strange vigour — the sort
that makes rivers flow uphill.


no one should drown in their sorrows,
even when the earth and sky
are full of unanswered prayers.
yes, we all want to feel new again,
like the phoenix bird that had a rebirth
on a seashore bathed in moonlight
and darting, starry beams.


but then, sometimes,
we find true, mysterious love – the kind

that hatches life from death –

in the solace of lost, forgotten friends,
as rare coincidences creates magic
through the sinewy twists of time.


this is the almost forgotten theory
of how life’s sauciest miracles work. 
your mind can only heal
if/when you let it and the thorn
that once pricked the soles can rot
and resurge as the incontestably giant tree
that gives shade and exotic fruits

at hot noons to lovers that were once haters.


What are you looking for?