kiambang.

a hidden grave will hide your body maybe someday they'll erase your story weapon and wealth, the luxurious property will no longer keep you company the wounded hearts will move eventually their tears will seep through the dry soil of the country the mourners will forget their condolence and sympathy but the earth, the unknown cemetery where you lie in mystery won't forbid the revelation of reality O' Qaddafi who knows the matter of your soul in front of The Almighty...

In the deep dark of the dead dawn A forest of grief has grown Rest in rage, a corpse of Eucalyptus slow dancing in a hiatus The moon up so high in the sky hides his eyes away behind lashes of a shameful decay refuses to see how her body sways The riot rhythmic moves of her stained feet mopping the floor of the rooted, tangled deceit the dusty ashes of her lost sanity appeals for a fleet I remember how she opens her eyes when she cries Trying to roll back the tears forming a lake beneath her bosoms Her white porcelain skin benumbed by the gloom of doom Her torn red frolic dress falls revealing her sanctum; a heart as hollow as a phantom I remember her crooked brown brows as her emotion frowns, with arms hugging her disowned broken boughs thick black blood runs from her mind to her chin and she grins as she mouths the word 'sin'. She dances to direction of the ocean of tears and blood of the ancient mourners She sinks deeper as she cries...

Life! What’s the matter with you? Sending me angels, with wings as wide as the sky with hands as soft as petals, holding me as if I could fly. Stop mocking me! Yes! Indeed, I’m the wounded devil broken head, bloated heart ankles- hurt, hands- anchored. But I was a devil who did no evil except believing in something; something quite medieval that came in a shape of double ovals skewed to the middle looking so royal acting so loyal keeping me moving in the spiral of a never ending ritual. of course I couldn’t spell the word I'm not a coward, I've tried before it took so much of me that even if I could I know that I would, not. and please, I beg of you stop lending me your sorrow I would prefer to borrow a burrow where I can hide my soul from all the ghosts and ghouls haunting me in every tomorrow and bury my worries that would grow memories as sweet as cherries Life, if only, for tonight You could tell the angels to stay for maybe tomorrow, when ...

at the instance the words hit the ground is when I realise how I regret standing up... in front of you and remain invisible.

Honesty speaks its own language. When it's quiet, the absence is very present. .......... I do not want to ask. for I understand my intuition for I have right to trust my own judgement for if I did, it'd be an irrevocable question and no, I'm not in desperation nor making any speculation I have spies at the back of your door supplying me with evidences although this might mean a separation in which no heart would agree to be broken I would accept knee wounded but open handed for I had long submitted to the fate of human written in life and death's agreement. :: honesty is paid with honesty... and vice versa::

Like a slab to the footings So close and load-bearing Slightly ajar for a little movement For the earth is sometimes shaken, with emotion So it won’t break; a fallen heaven Like columns to the beams One keeps standing so the other can keep hanging shouldn’t be too close, less its superfluous shouldn’t be too far, for the span isn’t limitless they must meet at an accurate angle knotted with bolt, nuts and dowel bonding into one composition, like angels with wings to the body, yet invisible Like walls to the windows and doors There’ll be neither without Though, must not always be with Like rafters to the roof Hold it at a distance in the drove Layered with a fiberglass insulation Warm, tight like a blanket of love Concealed; an undercover peace dove to the gutters that keep them waterproof Nay, neither should move nor be removed.

Dia menulis dalam jaga dengan mata dipaksa dibuka berharap tiada kona-kona pada garis baca aa ba ta Dia menulis bagai di sisi ada guru yang kan menilai setiap helaian buku kelak dilapor pada bapa atau ibu anak ini semuanya tidak tahu, membawa malu! Dia menulis tidak laju abjad dan ayat tesusun satu persatu sendi jemari dan otot lengan masih kaku entah bila baharu maju mereka beritahu, menunggu siap sebuku harusnya kucing bertanduk beroleh cucu Dia menulis memang begitu namun, sekurang-kurangnya dia tidak berhenti di situ. Jangan bilang sebarang, aku bersama kamu, penulis itu.