The Rightful Funeral

Under a shroud of rainforest mist
lies still the corpse of a time.
The trees stand in a silent mourn
in wake dripping fresh dew tears.
The funeral is yet to happen for
it isn't certain yet, who will
perform the final rites of passing.
It is uncertain even, when it'll happen
if the funeral is ever to happen.

Funerals are after all an invention
of humans. And this death was
due to the arrival of humans
into the forests which only knew
survival, and nothing of possession.
But that has forever changed.
Thus, the end of a time, an eon
of simple live and let live,
of taking only what was needed.

Now begins the time of possession;
of want beyond mere needs;
of desires beyond just survival.
There will be discovery, revelations
innovations and inventions. 
There will be the invention of funerals,
to mark and commemorate endings,
memorialize passings and loss. And
more often than not, forgetting any or
every lesson, an end might've taught.

The mist shrouded corpse of that time past
was never laid to rest, seldom is recalled
for it has never had a funeral; forgotten
amidst the possessions and inventions.
It roams the path of humankind,
haunting its footprints of progress, 
a discontent, dissatisfied spirit, a melancholic
wailing wind of warning in its wake
seeking peace at the hands of the ones
who never realized its end,
never laid it to a contented rest;
who never gave it its rightful funeral.

Luminous Silence

Of a profoundly haunting,

bewitching silence,
Casting a slow lull over the soul
with their fathomless depth
of mystery and confessions,
with their spell of call to dive
and swim ceaseless laps of
indefatigable ardour,
of impassioned enlightenment,
and of an absolution of peace
of which even the deepest space
will be envious;
of a contentment which sparkles
with an awareness of ambition
fulfilled by sheer will of the self;
of a twinkle which is yet unspoilt,
unblemished by time and the times
off its endearing infectious innocence;
of fair empathy and patient justness
rooted in the wellspring of
The Mother's generous Gaeaic womb;
of the relaxed reassuring sighs of
the cosmic blinks of waxing and waning Luna;
ever conversing in that primal language
of luminous silences and yet I wonder how
they can be of such moving eloquence-

Your smiling, blushing eyes.

She Loves Paper Flowers

Loves me
loves me not.
Loves me
loves me not.
No petals will suffer
this cliche for me.
Why should they?

Loves me
loves me not.
Loves me
Loves me not.
She loves origami
and I've folded her
a paper flower.

Fold one,
she loves me.
Fold two,
she loves me not.
Fold three,
she loves me.
Fold four...

Fold ten,
she loves me.
Fold eleven,
she loves...wait!
But I am sure,
I love her! And she
loves paper flowers!

Final fold, yes
I love her.
I see her after class
waving her students
a smiling goodbye.
That paper flower
no matter what,
will forever belong to her.

Hunger

As if a vortex of vacuum

swirls within the stomach,
it sucks in one's being with
patient urgency and
relentless persistence
until, one offers satiation-
hunger, the primal force
driving all life.
Hunger itself however,
is never hungry, needs nothing.
It is only the creator of
that need which none can ignore.
It is only the fuel to fire
the embers which keep life
warm and pulsing.
If hunger creates this need,
then what creates hunger itself?
Hunger is born out of the need
which hunger itself creates.
It is a snake
swallowing its own tail,
living as much as, it dies.
Hunger is that circle of need,
perpetually beginning
at the point where it ends.