Earth’s art

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

The song of my dreams is but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s hymn.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

you’ll need a kaleidoscope to view my art

It is elusive even in umbra lighting

But it is enough the way it is

because I was made in Earth’s treasure chest

where no two narratives are the same

A page from my book

If you want it to be

Life can be both a blessing

and a lesson

But,

It is impossible to read a book

whose pages have never been opened.

some of mine has got sands between the pages

and others have shaggy dogged ears

because I scribbled words I couldn’t speak

and watered-down thoughts I couldn’t share

Crucifying oneself is the prince of bio-weapon

One sting, eternally addicting to the soul

Seemingly infectious it is too

that’s why I easily scare on my walk alone.

The song of my dreams is none but a cacophony,

a mixture of voices that drowns purpose

sometimes a ghost serenades me with incoherent karaoke

other times I’m enchanted by a siren’s song.

I scribbled dried blood on my sleeves

yet you’ll need a kaleidoscope of sorts to view my art

It is enough the way it is

because I was made for Earth’s treasure chest