Something New I fall in love with you Everyday, But that is nothing new. I'm stuck On you like the morning Dew, but it is nothing new. You rub Me off and say sweet nothings, And it's still nothing new I long to Touch your lips with mine And collapse In your arms whilst you Whisper the Words, I love you. Such a Far cry but I guess you'll never know How it feels To wait. Immortality is Beyond us And I have no tomorrow Assured. A man who could not see Or speak, Hear, or feel even has his Own way Of expressing his feelings How much More you, with functional Sensation Not know what you want! Well, enough. I can't go on doing this Precarious Dance with you. Yes it is True that It takes two to tango but Sorry, I am Through with you! Well You seem Shocked. Don't be. I took Your advice And decided to reinvent Myself. Actions speak louder than Words. Aha! Babe, choke on this if You must. I guess it's something new.

Nolan's Muse (Warning: Extremely racy contents) Salient object of her affection, Nolan was his name. The archer Of her labium who would visit her occasionally at Long-Lasting Race, a solitary street, on Fields many summers Ago. She remembers the ridiculous Negligee she had on one morning, to arouse His senses. The oven was fiery hot Waiting to toast him slightly brown, News flash in the Washington Post, He was leaving Kentlands Blvd, where it All started, to Mozambique. As time goes by, she still does visit the Kentlands, Hoping she’d catch a glimpse of him To tell him how terribly, she’s missed His fully loaded bout of mucus, sprawling on her tongue. So maniacal and homicidal, she should have worn a trench coat, Instead of that ridiculous negligee had she Known it was going to pour heavily, Drenching her in carnal bliss.

Oh Be Still Foolish Heart (Sonnet): Slowly, softly, it seeps, waiting to explode. Her foolish heart will always be singing, Haunting melancholia, venom plateaued. Lately sleep deprived, and always stringing. Insomnia has become her heart’s fellow Jarring serenade so vacuous Of her love’s bemused, sporadic bellow Love equivocal, is arduous! But her heart still throbs although, exhausted. The courtesan’s prowl to be wooed too, Will never by she, torment plagued, be accosted. Although she pulled, the cord that twined the two, Her once jocund heart, in placidity, Is sinewed, by his love’s acidity.

War Tides The vibrating cords… Like the strings on a guitar Singing their last song. Tremolant discords Signals death’s final moment Lingering hope, stilled. In the knights void orbs… Reminiscences, the thrill Withering away. Glints, evanescent… At the icy hands of death Of, mortals at war Gallant knights at heart Their stench of decay lingers Weakening senses. Though they are no more Their faces still haunt us, all. The contemplation; By loved ones, echo. Homeward bound, never will they. Oh! Perils of war! Silence Tremolo! At homes, in hearts, far and wide! Peace. Let the lights dim In the last hour… #life antiquated, by death, At the hands of war.

The Color Of War Where tranquility used to be, there is pandemonium The freedom street is held in solitary confinement Armored cars, bombs and heavy machine guns, Running wild like an old Singer machine The collector makes a ghastly entry and no man is safe A deadly calm looms over the sphere, There is curfew on the streets, the once placid side of town Suddenly, a loud penetrating sound filled the void. The lofty magnificent edifice bowed to its captor. The walls quivered and crumbled, the streets quaked. Deafening, shattering, disturbing echoes, How many until it rests and releases the soul of man? Carnage is such, a delight to the cruel and the faint at heart The collector is not done yet, no not yet, until the sheaves Picked clean perhaps. By sunset there would be beauty For ashes, charred, dark flesh with sense searing whiff, Eyeballs bulged, and dangle from the sockets. Soused in tangy crimson shadiness, an odious blot On-the-landscape. What a Colorful annihilation. Only the fittest would survive, no Not the fittest but the lucky ones. When war strikes, There is none fitter except hope. Hope is the fittest. The collector gathers beauty for ashes and no man is safe. In war-torn nations, laved with chaos and peril, How would one survive when nefarious eddies, rustle And the earth shivers and weeps in the tides? If war cried a tear what would the color be? Scarlet tinged, dark and purple, perhaps a dash of Melancholy-pale trails, collapsing softly on the once Beautiful landscape, now a crimson-stained Blotchy, jarring reality glued to the face of peace.