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

The fall of Homo Sapiens

I keep dreaming of Astral beings

circling the earth’s core

suspended in their orbital hollow UFOs

steering their spaceship into Central America

abolishing all life form around its perimeter

I still suspect Aliens

emitting high-frequency light energies

into galaxies far from our limited views

bottling up the milky way in titanum jars

threatening humanity with each turn of time

I have never heard the wind like that before

or the mangroves speak stillness

From it’s deep bowels,

the earth has sprouted cancerous roots

Left me speechless like never before

The time is coming

the time has come

Time lapses outside my bedroom window

wrapping our psyche in a precise forcefield

like the decadent sycamore tree rooted outside

This is a message to the Earth

the seasons, the canyons and natural elements

how aimless our planet orbits the sun

as Humans poison it’s fertile soil

waiting for when it’s devoid of life form

So listen as the former powerful giant

whimpers in a clam shell

will the earth still be earth?

if the celestial bodies turned away

if the rain refused to seep from the heavens

If she took back everything she gave us

and handed it to the next generation of evolved species

They will excavate our bones

retracing the history of the fall of homo sapiens

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