A tale of how a body dissolves
into a darkcreature, whilst kissing the earth
cannot be told rather to siblings; to families;
to the shadow that haunts them.
The conquest, the transcendence
in the open field;during the fire flies whisper;
& during the birds tweeting
are before the sullen moonlight,
as it swallows it
Arethe tales; the secrets of all black secrets
Hidden beneathdarkness &
Away from prying eyes and mouths.
The silhouettist tells not
The headlines, digging& burning
his figure, his words, his name
Like wildfire; as it burns every truthinto false
On the skins of those who
carry the obsolescence & the burnsin their heart
That he had died, a while ago
I am paranoiac anytime I melt
Like an iceberg; like a candlewax on your cheeks
Maybe, this is the alchemy
To the truckload of warsand struggles
my body fights,&wears every day.
In the dark, I wear a thick figurine
walking into a dead room, my blackness illuminates
and their monochromatismdies
at the sight of my shadows.
I am darkness, the ones that’ll chew
into you;to carveyour heart
a symbol for sympathy.
I am the grave, craving for your flowers, your wishes & yourprayers
Since Oblivion has become my middle name
Anytime you think of my mother
The picture of me, holding handswith her
lit a tear in you,
your eyes burn and bleed.
You’ll seek me not in my father’s flesh
Il est la glossaire moinsdeces lui-meme
You’ll forget the songs; the talks and the jokes I did
But, whenever you think of me
I’ll be behind you, (be)holding your smiles.
God is light, like silhouette His fingers
Rest on our eyebrows & when we sleep,
He beats hope into drums coated with
Fears in our heart & watch us dance to
the tunes on sun, days, He likes entertainers.
God is immortal, like silhouette. If you search
Inside him, you’ll find the image of men
& when we slip. He sleeps.
A boy was born yesterday. I search through
his breath & found God coming out off him at
every exhaled. he died today!
Didn’t God made him according to his image
Come, let us think.
Isn’t images collection of dreams stocked on
a motionless plank, whose destinies are to
Tell tales, haunting memories of dead chasm?
Isn’t likeness a comparison between what
Should be, & what is what, playing on
That is to say:
Every man was dead before he was born
He comes into the world like fiction
And when been read, he wanes off
Come, let us think.
As a man, you live in a cloud under the earth
And your shadow carry your feet over
The face of the earth & as a god, you seek to
find solace when the night is over whence your
Lips grows too heavy to talk, & after dying
God is immortal, someone say God is Light
Like silhouette, Like his finger rest on our
eyebrows & when we sleep,