The Edge



I’m standing at the edge again,
Looking down and waiting,
For the slightest blast of wind
To sway me, convince me
Coax me over the jagged cliff,
Down to the waters below,
To meet the smoothened stones,
Crashing waves, my longing gaze,
And the sun is yet to be swallowed.

The cold stone is slippery,
Threatening to pull me down
Before my mind has been made up
It knows the turmoil within
The deepest crevice of my soul
It knows the strange calm
Quivering at the tip of my lips
Waiting for the wisp of a command
To either take the leap of courage
Or to turn away from my so-called fate.

The word lingers at the edge
Of consciousness, unfelt, unheard
Twisted by reason to mean nothing
But the feelings remain raw, untouched
The substance of dreams cannot be changed
Memories can be mutated in the mind
But the essence of each drop shall remain
All the while, the echoes shall lie
Forgotten in the deep dwelling of the soul
The soul that never existed.

The command has been whispered
I remain standing, unable to comprehend
Where life has brought me
Where I am to drift, as I have been drifting
Almost unconsciously, yet fully aware
I’ve been going as the wind takes me
How much further must I go?
The road is long and weary,
Twisting and turning,
The cliff is inviting,
One single slip
And it’s over
I’m falling





The clouds have arrived,
In chariots, driven by wisps of vapor,
Entangled and entwined
In the greatest phenomenon
To bring down a shower
Of the first monsoon rains,
To quench the thirst of the earth,
Baked by the summer sun,
Rendered a lifeless brown.

We wait in anticipation,
For the rain to pour down,
And drench our weary hearts,
But the clouds hang over us,
Teasing us, taunting us,
Bringing us cold winds
But keeping the rain at bay,
Letting out only a few drops,
To let us know they are heavy
But cruel in every way.

We can hear them laughing,
And see their smile,
Then feel a drop of life
Fall at our feet,
The sky is charged
With the greatest energy
But we will have to wait
Longer than we had hoped
For the Tempest to come in
And let the roads turn to rivers
That will sweep us off our feet.

And lo’, the storm’s a comin’,
After waiting for days,
It’s here to bring color
And sound sleep to the tired,
With the pitter-patter of  drops,
That fall on the window,
And give us promises
Of a cool and windy morning
We wait in anticipation,
As the rain sings us a lullaby,
And we drift into sweet slumber.


Perfect Poet Award Week 45

I got the Perfect Poet Award for Week 45.  I would like to thank everyone for it!
I would like to nominate Jamie Dedes for the next award.
The above poem is my acceptance poem.


Dream On


The dust of our fathers fall to the ground,
We’re left to pick up the torn pieces
Of their dreams that never took form
Wispy, sick, and cold to the bone
Twisted out of shape, crumbling to dust,
Spreading its rust to the dreams we once held,
Until they too break at the slightest touch.

Our dreams are Ghosts that haunt us each day,
Constantly reminding us of what gave up today,
To build a tomorrow that we will always delay,
As we chase after things that keep us this way.

And we are always chasing, chasing all the time,
After things that help us slowly drown,
In a cup of our own blood, sweat, and tears,
Invested but never enjoyed, in this unknown tragedy,
Until the seconds fly by and leave us pondering,
Where all the moments went that we were to cherish for life,
And it sinks in that we’ve lost too much but gained nothing of our own.

Our dreams are Ghosts that haunt us each day,
Constantly reminding us of what gave up today,
To build a tomorrow that we will always delay,
As we chase after things that keep us this way.

But I would rather have my Ghosts,
Haunting me day and night,
Reminding me of the little forgotten sparks of life,
Than hear the tragedy of the voices in my head,
Hopeless and forgotten by the waters I once tread,
For if anything, I only feel inspired to dream again
Though the dreams may never be more than fleeting dreams.