A Tremor

A tremor
Beneath the core
Of my heart
Rushes.

Dragging every spot
Of blood,
To an undefined heap of
Ash and dust.

“Scripture closes:
Ash to ash
Dust to dust”

Scattered, a heat beat
A breathe
A choke, finally
A hushed walk on
No existence;

I have but, a
Fetching hand
Unto the creator
Imploring
A sky to
Escape

When the hope is over
A smile exists,
Ahead of a
A hidden pain

On the Death of a Slave's Pen

Every now and then I get a glimpse of
What can it be meant,
A free zone to my pen.
At the moment next,
To the eternal darkness
I close to my self.

It was then in the darkest corner,
I hatched upon the edge of spears;
I saw
My pen bleeds.
Over the white, red spread
I felt my words smelling blood.

An unreleased word!
An interrupted revolution!
Here lies,
The frozen blood
Of
My pen.

Epitaph:

We are tired, yet
We are not bound.