Between the thorns of each day

Between the thorns of each day
The mouse-scared minutes I kneel my body to rest
Sleeping on my toes
Waking with every windblow
I hold an educated face
One that plunders smiles
And wears the plastic ones instead

And with this shiny smile
Bottled with the colour of gloom
The roped up man
Pretty in his robed up self
Lays his footprints and handshakes around
Non-oblivious to the big, cold wind
Eagerly waiting to serve another one to the world
On the 'ol sooted platter

And so, the prison-waiting begins
The fast and fragile clock hands throw time
While my head repeats the honest words
I welled up myself

Between the thorns of each passing day
I push through the iron
Still keeping my brain
Raging for the light to drop on me
Waiting still for the perfect word
Hidden behind the very tips of my fingers
Telling me my sun will still be shining

Inaugurational B.O.

Standing on their naked stance
Waiting for war to give a chance
Fighting sticks and stones without a glance

Buried futures cast in ashes
Cradles drowned from tears and clashes
All because some crazy wind blew by

Prophesying ghosts of justice
Making clowns out of a ten-piece
While holding on to someone else's keys

Sitting on a kingly seat
Strangling, smiling, looking neat
Turning round to ask what it's all about

There won't be
No there won't be
There won't be war anymore

There won't be
Lord, no there won't be
There won't be war anymore

But now the page it takes a flip
A hero taking to the streets
With all the stars promised into a heap

What used to be a circus show
Buried now beneath the snow
Hope stands at the edge of morning glow

Hands that once used to hold black
Now promises to hold sorrows back
Putting truth and faith onto the track

Pointing a finger to the sky
Fist unclenched with a joyous cry
A glorious march now to victorai

There won't be
No there won't be
There won't be war anymore

There won't be
Lord, no there won't be
There won't be war anymore

The Prayer to The Mother

Dearest Mother,

They say it’s you we can turn to
In times of tight-eyed prayer
When tears have shed bare
From imparting too much of ourselves
Giving away our moments of existence
During when we just forget
And plough in all our time for the self
Thinking in the end we’ll not regret

But how naïve and bland we make out life to be
When truly, we only say “please”
On the rocky second we start to feel queasy
And learning to presume your very presence
Is perpetually just a handslap away
Closing out our eyes for mere longer blinks
From the piercing light through the chinks
In our cotton-armoured lives
And leaving the mending to your divine tool hands

I put my hands in prayer for your help, dear Mother
To unleash our slithering pride instead
To build on a humble garment
And leave judgement to whom we thank our existence

And despite the temptations of praying
For the sad and selfish needs of Me
I pray not for certain miracles to be
Not for the ashes of hurt to be reborn
Not for peace of my mind
Nor even possessions of any worldly kind

I pray for a bigger miracle
Not only for the bodily experience
But the mind and soul of every person in this world
Be it friend or foe
Strangers or people we know
Everyone we love or hated
And people who slide through the paths
Of our everyday lives

I pray for the fiercest of their personal storms to subside;
That the petals of peace be washed upon all lands;
That love will not be just a word of transient moments
But an enduring one they can find in their hearts;
That apathy, fear and self-centredness be sword down;
So that pain would only be a mere recording of history
And that the smiles of our offspring shall be sweetly savoured
And that we know God has always been by our side

Catching A Moment

I forgot to catch that moment
You know the one that closes your eyes softly
Running rain music between your ears
With Christmas hand cupping your face
While seeing the feathers of these silences
Turn each soft second
Around the fuzzy wet windows
Seeing haloed tungstens pass
And you're packed up in woolen warmth
Enjoying the melancholic cold blowing on your hands

You know the one that forms your goosebumps
Hearing melodic full whisperings
Quietly misting up the glass
With your singing breath
Along to the caresses and weightlessness
Of the black and whites
Of the jingles piping in