Wings of glass.

Wings of glass.

On snow as white as light itself,
she lays battered and broken.

They point at her,
their fingers dripping red.

They laugh at her,
their voices dead as the masks they wear.

She was freedom,
they wore shackles.

In naivety she did a crime,
drank the elixir of life.

but all she ever wanted was
to reach the stars
on her wings of glass.

-Saif.

Salted tears.

Salted tears.

All my life I complained about the salt being less in the dishes she made,
and all my life she told me she’s sorry.

Now when my eyes don’t open and my heart doesn’t beat.
Now as they dig my hole in the ground.

I wish I could tell her I’m sorry,
sorry for never realising how salty her tears were.

-Saif.

She said.

She said.

Let’s knit a story, she said.
Of a boy wooden, she said.
He falls in love, she said.
With a doll of flame, she said.

He burns and she breathes.
Each other, they feed.
She is light and he is crackle.
Weaving dreams of forever.

But the wood runs out, she said.
And the flame cools down, she said.
Like this the story ends,
She is smoke and he is ash, she said.

-Saif.

That could have been.

That could have been.

The strings are rusty and fingers numb,
but I sing for you my bewildered one,
with a heavy heart and a trembling voice,
under the shade of this starry night,

I sing for a world that could have been.

On the moonlit rooftop,
beneath the cloudy canvas,
I knit a river of words unspoken,
meanwhile passes a shooting star,

and I wish for a world that could have been.

-Saif.

3 am.

3 am.

It’s 3 am and my eyes don’t close.
It’s 3 am and the tears don’t come.
Dry is the well and empty the chest.
It’s 3 am and I’m dead.

-Saif.

 

Blood and glass.

Blood and glass.

Shattered glass and broken lamps,
walls painted scarlet,
a fire that roars in a world that crumbles.

Amidst it all,
is a soul so desolate,
stuck beneath the weight of all he once cherished.

As his body melts like wax,
pain is not what hurts,
it’s the epiphany that he never once lived.

-Saif.