I was born with no voice or choice – like any man Trapped to the hybrid form Of my parent’s design – of their DNA Yet in death I found both  – my own voice and my wishful choice Untainted by the greed of life And embellished by the freedom of my soul To fly…


Too little charity Transacted in the currency of love Too scarce are selfless deeds Embarked from ports of the conscience Too little, too late To make a difference To a wandering soul In the perennial absence  Of inhale Exhaled from life By the noose  Of indifference


She rustled To the tender pouts of zephyr And dislodged in abscission To a vortex of gravitation  To be sedimented on the bed of history As a grain of amnesia

Suicide Bomber

In between the voice of unreason And the echo of detonation Rested a requiem of heartbeats Levitating souls and corpses left behind Amidst crimson drops and dust fogs, littering skin and teared flesh Wailing lungs and rallying sirens The culmination of a journey to the edge of reason Where sanity stood as the helpless hostage…