Sunday Rain

Tiny ponds
miniature ripples
wet pebbles
flipping slippers

Small waves
voyaging slow
lazed rapids
careless flow

Drenched twigs
dropping dews
soaked grass
sparkling views ...

The murderious man

He kept trembling in silent night.
Chill crept in from his spine,
As he desired his will to survive,
armed with a bottle of wine.

Sweat wetting all along his hide,
he drowned into strange notion.
His heart pounding with fright,
from the betrayal of emotion.

Hands, Soiled in Blood,
tightened around the cuddled knees.
Hunting.. searching for word,
to justify his nascent deeds...

The rain and the orphan...

Clouds in the sky.
flying alone and high;
within them, they have
the raindrops kept safe.
And on, and on they sweep
searching for places to weep.
Places alone and isolate,
pouring out its fate...

And then it rained.
oh, with music it blend,
With the thunder here,
and the lightening there.
The Drops.. they all fall
with breeze, it jostle.
Freely it then land,
on Someone they offend...

The child on the street
walking alone on feet;
within him, he have
the teardrops kept safe.
And he runs with sealed lip
Searching... for places to weep.
places alone and isolate,
cursing out at his fate.

And then he cried,
Oh, the Orphaned child.
for the Mother here,
and the Father there.
The Tears... they all fall,
with breeze it jostle.
But they flow in vain,
vanishing with the Rain...

Murder on the street.

Deafening silence
And the moonless night.
The world is drowning,
By the darkened light.

In this condemned hour;
Beneath the flickering shower,
on the shadowed path.
His muffled heart.

Feigned comfort...
seems like eternity.
A walk down that street,
ceded steps of uncertainty.

A Sudden debacle ...
an existence of life,
someone other!

An effusion of surprise
a hushed lurch for greeting
with Greed in those eyes.

Along that..
a burial of silence.
display of the Blade
and tango of violence.

"He then loses out..
penetrates the dagger,
unleashing painful shout."

He gazes at his life,
draining through the knife.
Uncaring of the man,
and his robbing hand.

Blinding sight..
encroach inside..
everything is lost,
knocked off... by a gust?

Silence once more..
as the darkness acede,
And the street ignores
his orphaned Bleed

Searching Me

Me! I am lost...
in passage of time
and unwritten rhyme.

I look back at Life
for memories that survive.
Turning those pages...
strange uneasiness.

I cannot find Me,
But splinters breaking free.
I see not my face,
But piles of faded image

More is lost then found..
But still, I stroll around.

Macbeth's dream

Three witches in the cave,
frog and mice for their slave.
Gathers around the colossal pot,
whispering chants, cold and hot.
Says that they could see,
Macbeth's future for free.

"A night shall soon come
as silent as monk's hum.
Which, with it will bring
the murder of a worthy king"

With this slaughter of faith,
the throne empties, for Macbeth.

But his hands cannot be clean,
for the blood will always reign.
Soon all friend turns to foe,
war trumpets would begin to blow...

He would hear strange talk,
like forest starting to walk.
nothing else would then be said,
Its their sword and Macbeth's Head.