I can not Love you

Holding on to my memories?
The one who is an aloft lilly in the cactuses valley,
The one standing on fork ended roads of life
Where breath is not even in good terms with her
Whose Helen is feeding on her own snippets
How Long would you collect my broken feathers?
Or thrive to resolve my knotty threads of pallid Identity?
I am Half truth or Half haunting Fantasy
A residue of burnt hopes
Where only insects of fear breed
My Troy you can not own
It's a battle of myself with my own innards
Forget me forever
I can not Love thee
Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2015

My Grammarly Emotions

When tickled pink , an adjective I am 

When cyclone writes on my face it's mighty objection

They say: I coil, swirl , polarize

Like a restless verb often does in the company of adverbs

Later in moments if I manage to wear my invisible crown

 I am fixed in a case of a noun; a hypocritical clown

My dark circles are their favourite metaphors

They extract similes from my lonesome Life's chapters

My skin's hues are in their custody too

I act , I read

I rustle, I chatter

I smile loud, or I wink

I often on my miseries sing

And then above all I am Noticed

Like a closed-ended story I am read

Where do I hide my shattered dreams?

Their magnetic pull drag unwanted atoms in heaps

I doubt no bone of my own

Belongs to me Alone

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2015

A tiny scented-candle murmured:
"O lord make my flame few miles high
So that i can reach the sky
I wish to burn in fractions of seconds
The mole in the middle of the moon"

Copy Rights Reserved to Paras Ali

The Editor brought the poem to theatre

A tallow-stick,
Black Pencil,
Russet shadow,
Bald meadow,
Fuzz
buzz
tick-tock
tick-tock
And ruse the rustle
Moth in wax shroud
Panther, puma
Into Blood bouts
Moon-burnt-beam;
Together
With Aliens, Birds
And hunched smoky spectators:
Clip-ed,
Edit-ed,
Trim-ed and Punctuate-ed,
The ab-surd Object d'art
To tantalize,
Fawn and Flaunt
Arcane whispers of my Heart
Ah.... In the Most Original World
Masks are to be worn by my Words...
Copy rights reserved to  Paras Ali

Who am I?

I am a thousand bits of paper on a leaf
Waxed together by affable honey bees.
One corner of it is tucked
To the right claw of dead vulture's carcass
Hanging on the tree, shouldering a deserted nest.
While my other half is hooked
To an urn preserving ashes of godlike humans.
Here beats no wind chimes
Nor reigns the kingship of time
No compass lives to set the sails of my shards
Here Movement has breathed long ago it's last
Even then i am on the verge to fall
I know i will go down and my bits will drown
Because i can not escape my own gravity
(Paras Ali, 2015)

I do not write for you

Like a honey bee i have taken a thousand flights
Around the city of primroses, pearl blossoms and Jasmines
From the swishing bullets and booming guns
To the stenched fungi infected fields of slum
I have squeezed and compressed a brilliant nectar of words
My whirring of broken wings have heaved a sigh
To the dead silent haunting nightmares
Yes i am an ordinary gray-eyed wingless bird
Exiled long ago from the sky of Hawks , falcons and Eagles
Dare not flutter your huge feathers around me
Your perfection can not beset me
Don't even try to buy my words
Think a million times before you read me
Err not even in your day dreams
Not even my tiny suffix belongs to you
Nor i write for you
Neither i sing for you


Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2015

"And then the December Wept"

Listening the loud commotion,
The Serene December clomped towards my castle
To borrow some bits of hope for the mourning horizon
It saw with in my grotto black blotched moon
Abandoned from the light-laden rain of moonsoon
Few forlorn petals of a bud
Before turning flower were daggered to death
Nameless odours of my youth
Mingled in the poisonous brook, gone crude
And my plagued embryo of wan words
Burnt to Ashes before their formal birth
After witnessing my this wealth,
Poor December cuddled me tight
It could not resist ,it failed to forgive
Gathering me in it's arms,
Atlast like an imaptient Child
It melted and cried

Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali/2015

(My dear friend Amna Ali motivated me to write something on Stockholm syndrome and here goes my meagre attempt to depict a cordial relationship between captor and Hostage)

"Get her a Medic , else she would die soon", shrieked my father but I was constantly pretending to be okay despite of the fact that it's clapper claws had still its gripping tooth marks on my cerebral bone. The pain at the right corner of my head was chomping my nerves to the utmost level of numbness and it's fangs were bricking it's potent existence with each passing moment.

Though the razor-shaped fangs had drained from my eyes each diminutive speck of my blood yet I mustered up my courage to look across it's demeanour. From my pusillanimous finger and timid pores I swiped the misty clumps on the mirror opposite to it and it's deportment aflamed my eyes

I chanced upon see it's aureate eyes first and then my iris slipped to his mighty built that was nonetheless a casket of gold and red. My pain started to fade no sooner I glared across it's stormingly ferocious jaws crunching December's soggy leaves. The more it was plucking out my hair, the more I was gaining moments to notice it's vexed and maddened looks. It's Machiavellian tricks shackled my attention and sent me to a quagmire where my captor appeared handsome more than the man of my dreams. It has everything all my life I looked for ; An unsettled spirit of a soldier, a diligent truth lover and an unmasked apathetic man who has murdered from his own hands the faulty promises of love. It was not dressed in virescent hues like Spring rather it was attired in respite free December having a ravaging thirst to spread vandalism around the alleys of the world. Yes I found so much truth in him and to be honest I being his hostage fell in love with him.

Till, today during cold December nights in the disguise of migraine it comes to jolt each marrow of my brain and like the willows, brownish bare trees and unkempt frost I learn the definition of devilish truth not hidden in things nor in transient colours.

Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali

'Nature be a Witness'

(In the memory of ten year old Fahad APS Peshawer)

Who unlid your Ben ten's water Bottle?
From tip to toe its Straw is Burnt
WHO turned your lunch box a Chalice or a Grail of Blood?
Nature be a witness my Child died of Hunger and thirst
How From your Body your soul  robbed off?
I wish to the Mother Your Picture Could Talk

You longed so much to see
Your pet peafowls,pheasants and parakeets
Adorning with their Colours every limb of tree
Now Flutter their duplets and triplets in violet and puce
Had Hour glass not stopped you to blue
You Could  have seen too dreams come true

Why should i pick your blood deluged shoes?
When you died of red's dearth in your tissues?
Why should i take pity to the bits of paper fallen to the Floor?
When they doubled on you the blazing flames to four?
When fire whittled off my flower's throat
Nature be a Witness The seven seas even closed their doors

copy rights reserved to Paras Ali/ 2015

Art

Moon-arms, a numb frozen smile

Plastered pear flesh glued to beguile

Trim-chiselled nose Flask -filled brook eyes

In Electrifying enormous silence

Dead Desert's Dune on parched lavender lips

And Puffed parasol of Emerald Silk for the naked ribs

With all blandishments, the sculpture, Incised in glamorous clay

Well equipped to battle the ageing Play

Tis Touting Infinity to the sublimity of Art

Poor Statue knows not  Stygian valves of Human Heart

Can Mona Lisa ever feel the anguish of snow on Head?

How do Keats' well accounted Urn can sense

The remorseful hours , kicks and pricks when ashes end end burn

How the high-mettled Holy Grail can narrate the Blood's tale?  

Can foreign Stone explain the pelvic outbursts?

From a thousand- yeared-womb instead of bud ; when Volcano erupts?

Dear well versed, artistic sorcerers to turn your Art Eternal

Humans are sacrificed on Altars to be ultimate Mortals

(Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali 2015.

I will Remember you no more

He knew I  was a meagre  frosty blue flame

To test my patience he went up the sky

His cloud yawned and drizzled on me showers of thunder

He muddled in my blood

He filled my every heart's sac

I rose again 

I flickered back

 

Today, i have stabbed my own heart

 I have Spilled open my each vein

Beneath, besides, behind i can see

I am drenched, I am deluged and thoroughly wet

The trails of myself are now red

No matter even if i don't survive

I hav promised to myself

I will let you go

I will let you free

I will remember you no more

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali

Doppelgänger

With the advent of winter,
I shall blanket my noxious soul,
In fur-lined coats, ski boats and magenta mufflers
Yes my this tightly cloaked camouflage will shield me against meadows of mist
While my baker-miller pink nose, my blue-gray hands and snow frozen lips
Will help me bury deep my venomous devil
But if ever the yellow stampeding dews blew away the frothy cotton of back clouds
I am scared, I am afraid
The fair-eyed sun would glare through my flesh
It would align me straight in the monolithic front of mighty monsters
And would send me to long hours of slumber

Copy rights Reserved to Paras Ali/2015

Oh Dying Sallow Eagle 

Other than you...
Who else knows better?
The Dawn's and Dusk's tinge of Colour,
The lioness Sun,
The Maiden's Moon,
The Balmy Breeze,
And the Sky shouldering her Vanities,
From River's Billow to Willow trees

Sky longs to see you wheeling down
Circling and swerving round and round
She yearns to get numb
In Thy Featherish Flutter
Against the temple of Air...

Wake up Sallow Eagle!
Cloud's Steeps and slopes are still to be curled
On Bride-to-be-Sky knit some Pearls
Preen to Perch High
Soar with roar...
Fly somewhere Far in the Ringletted Sky
Wake up Sallow Eagle!
Take for the Duchess Sky an enormous flight

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali

Rustling zephyr mutes moaning murmurs of crinkling crisp leaves
Like sobs of dreamers are zipped to see their castles swirled beneath big wheels
(Paras Ali)

Crime

Let us we

You and Me...

Commit a Crime

In the sinless world

If  not in time

Then in space utterly divine

Disfigure your Angelic soul

on the heightened heaven's pole

Scream my name

then i will do the same

Standing on the farthest mount of East

This way

Someday

Our Echoes will meet

The distance of life and Death will breach....

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali, 2015

In the Dynasty of Masters and Dames

The Sun has dropped down, turned Purple
The marble moonlight is decoyed in a hazy bubble
Lost and Erratic stands Nova's Fate
The Yellow rain is now namelessly defamed
In The dynasty of Masters and Dames
Beloved ! I call and call your name

I have lit with my fresh blood
The glass walls of sordid World
My Tears have tittered after years of workmanship
To Set Your Flask of wine on rythm's divine
In the Dynasty of Masters and Dames
Beloved! I call and call your name

The Pearless Oyster portends: my Life's sea is now shoreless
I am a Wayfarer my streets and roads are timorous
I have darted from ocean to sea, from brooks to stream,
The path has ended, still 'Respect' is a far-off dream
In the Dynasty of Masters and Dames
Beloved! I Call and Call your name

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali

Poem is Like a Life

Tis life like a poem's prologue
Words, morpheme,lexeme
Rustling rhyme, rhapsody's regime
All conscize, charismatic and complete
Poet pipe's up as an infant muse
Verse and verse and verse
Like the wheeling kites hidding red sky's bruise
Syll-ables like a mell-ow effortless youth
And the midst of the poem is a golden fruity air

North with pepper vines and West dimpling with pears
Like the glistening diamonds of youth
Stanzas replacing school-satchels with plummets in pruce
Peacocks, pigeons and parrots flutter high in the air
Bidding farewell to the grumpy knots layer per layer
A perfect poem like the goddess Spring lying bare

And then the poet reaches the end
Yellow moon on the pale bars bend
Birds forget the art to fly
 Words turn crumpled crisp leaves
 Altared to fire
Diminishing divine ink droplet
 A broken pen, a page gone wet
And an empty poem's epilogue
Like a vie-able old old  age

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali

Dear hope

I somehow accepted that i was a grain or probably a dot in horizon. I knew i was an ogre which was to be munched by gods. I never thought myself a princess underneath a studded sky jewelled with gems. I embraced the fact that my skin was scorched , my gait listless and my Gray eyes looked more graceful when sunk in cavities. Yes let me tell you i accepted reality.

Then you came in my life. Your optimistic camaraderie asked me to taste the piquant flavours of dreams. I obeyed you, i worshipped you and i decided to cuddle you tight as a little infant does to his father in dark. I transformed myself first in topaz, then in emerald, later in diamonds , I became a victim of your laconic words. Years are passing by, seasons are alternating and it seems as if I am lingering on fragile strand of spider's web. If I go off the rails of my status I am accused to be a rebel.If I break this eerie of feminine tranquillity my chauvinist lords would outcast me to the farthest dunes of desert. Each night I am battling with the thousand questions sprouting inside my barren field with a fear of losing you . I only have you to cling with . Just tell me for once for how long I have to wait to pass this test of gratefulness and patience.

Yours

Paras Ali

Wish I were a word of a poet

Wish i were a word of a poet

He would scrub me in his thoughts

Once swept, dusted and polished

He would toss my curls in the air full of whiffs of fragrances

Later he would dress me in Syllables of satin sparkling with sequins

No matter how bewildered his eye circles had looked

On his wet eye lashes he would hide me like a pearl

Even if his chest tightened with long hours of weariness

I would come on tiptoes and ripple his silence with my hish-hush

A million times he would think, purse and pout his lips

To utter me in the company of bards

I would be his feeble light arch in pensive hours of dark

He would cloak me even if i turned a full ripe desiccated fruit

He would preserve me on his diaries and heart's flute

Wish i were a word of a poet

He would scrub me in his thoughts

Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali 2015

 Let no Memory Breathes

Clock less times I  have measured with depth
The corn sun turning Cherry red
And lone white tickled Moonbeams
Reflecting on the empty sky their innocent dreams
My Eyes have witnessed white and pruce's romance
Melting those poplars and bamboos in twilights trance
 Again and Again
All the way same

And those vulpine dwarfs of blizzard
Disrobing bronzite, topaz and emerald feathers of hers
The Clanking, chattering wind chimes
To the bird's ear, hitting sourly-scented divine rhymes
Again and Again
All the way same

Dear Thunder! I can smell you are near to my roads
My hand-made temple of flowers is your favourite resort
When you come,
Take all the sered petalish crumbs and my castles every part
I desire no more to drink the deluge of dream
Let No Memory Breathe
If Memory Once to my white Walls of Wait Entered
It would be a life Long Prisoner
Tempest ! blow a heavy Rain
Again and Again
All the way same

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali

Because I live in Jungle

  My cooing and Boeing broke the vigilance of autumnal bars
The bony- billowed- Brook gifted some chaste drops  
For my tiny body, to dilute the blood's Flood
Sun disarmed the cloudy-cyclones and sent on slumber the boorish thunder
The Gooey Grove, the Willow Woods and the Natty Nymphs
Altogether Constructed for me an Islet in indigo Ink
When A toddler , I was a Ducks Only Duke
At Nine, a Regale Prince of Horses' Royal Regime
When A lean Teen, Lions, Jaguars, leopards and tigers aligned My Team
Later for a Man Of Wax, ostrich and Flamingo strawed Titans Nest
To get My monuments galleried  in manner best
Then Soon the serpents sand pinch by pinch counted my days
The Jungle above all has its Wild Ways
The Mother hungry Vulture took the first flight
And the Animal's Clan sentenced me to Exile;
" An Old Lunatic Wag: We Know You No More"
"Jungle has its arms for the living, For the dying it offers Doors"

Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali

In the city of lights I lost you

A Dark Wanderer
Penurious eyed I,
Fixed my feet 
On the Sky high miles.
The gaudy Lanterns
Dressed in bedizen flickers 
Blurred my sight
Lights refracted lights
The Compass measured nothing
But ponderous flux
Around needles ascending and descending
Embellished Colours
Inside Bright crystals muttered
From East to North
From West to South
Horizon was in Light's bouts
Here in the labyrinth of tinges,
Fleet of hues,
You appeared to me fairly middling
I found you the most colourless
I broke all the vows
I forgot you had been my life's seminal troop
I myself distanced from you
That dire moment
You did not lose me
But i Lost you
It was not the fate to be blamed
Reaching atop the opulent lamps 
I myself erased your name
(Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali, 2015) 

The Indifferent Sky

With splendour sky etches a copper orange on the elm trees
No sooner leaving a blanched almond trail over galaxy
The exquisite diamond of hers flickers in its ash grey rim
Hark hark hark its periwinkle blue bracelet clatters jauntily
Even while snipping evening,  Sky squeezes last drops of  alloy crimson
In the valley of ghosts still the fuchsia sky is juvenile and scintillating
Unyielding, adamant and ruthless she my mother never mirrors my melancholy
The radiant sky perhaps like the people of earth is a narcissist
She only lives to be noticed

@ Paras Ali/ 2015

Potrait

I never want any of your silvers glancing twilight
It envies me when amber sun-beams asserts on your skin its right
You do not know, orbed-moon plug pearls
To brighten its puce sky, earthly jewels are its earls
Rain Dropping low your lashes is your first love
I can not stand thunder-shower cuddling your curves
I die hard each day when indigo sleazy smog
Blurs all the distance and stand between us like a rock
I want nobody near you
I pray nobody touch you
Not even meadows, grove, billows and willows
I have caged rosy orchards, i have locked each door

I have heard pages turn yellow, they do de-age
I have seen blue,yellow, purple ink shortly gets fade
If i wrote you
Books would captive you
Fingers of readers would touch you
I want none.
I want you to be virgin
My Love! I have squeezed all my heart's hues
From my blood i have brushed
Yours and Mine Portrait....
Frozen in time and space
Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali 2015

Dying dreams inside the Pearls

Nor the Pearl's fear ever wrenched the  vase's heart neither any of them wished to trick their better half. The slightly puce shaded pearls and the crystal vase together had measured the delight of flickers of light slithering over them and then swirling around their hollow hours of wilderness. The life inside the vase has surpassed the life outside. How often the twigs tapped on the window panes, birds sung to their young ones lullabies and wind rattled against the frangible pearls , the vase sat there with its eyes clamped shut. At times from the lower fissure of the blinds wan moonlight from the starless sky, crawled to the room and cuddled straight the numb creature of glass but no sound , no tinge helped them to stutter to life. The roots of autumn have shackled the glass balls and the vase and the agony of dying dreams have made them indifferent towards pastel blue, opaque onyx, turquoise and olive greens of spring.

I wonder these pearls were my ancestors enveloped by the subtle sheen of crystal who once lived in the sand castles.They had cherry lips, coral pink cheeks and black brows. These  humans were like big massive rocks crashed by the giant waves of the sea. Their bodies would have slackened each time they caught breath to observe the splendour of the oysters lying close to them. Indeed they were like empty toys from inside but from outside they transformed themselves into burnished pearls.

I  am also residing inside the emporium of grandeur and lustre and  some day I'll turn a pearl too and later nor the world will make any difference to me nor the flames of my dying dream will make my presence felt to the multi-canvassed world.

I die a slow Death

I begin my day with crescent-sun which wave a wand
On my Life's fatigued crashing meteor
The tiny pocket of air  to my ocean dark deep eyes give currents
I hiss, I murmur,I stand , I walk ,I run
I can see the cluster of arms around me
Bopping up and down over my side walks and alleys
The noon sun pulls back noose from my neck
Layer by layer the day's dews cut my unkempt haze
 I am living, yes I breathe, I can feel with in me hope's heat.
The cosy sun drifts me to a peaceful lap
I dream, I dream and I dream
When I wake, the twin shadow of yellow tinges are gone
Another world, seeds of darkest deserts are born
I grope in the dark, I can not see
Vineyards are blanketed, starless night gulped all my fields
Unacknowledged unappreciated I am back to quagmire
I each day travel between dawn and dusk
Between indignations and contentments
Each day I die a slow soft death.

@Paras Ali (2015)

To The Critics

Don't you see my lords
My book has out and out white pages
Empty Chapters and skeleton free alphabets
No words i have scribbled,
No pattern of thoughts
No finger prints of mine nor traces
Show you are Mighty
Prove you are Potent
Burn my each end
Turn me a limpid monument of disobedience
But take my verdict
No book on myself I'll ever write...

@ Paras Ali (2015)

He says , "I am a slave"

Were you a king then you would know
The king of justice your words doth lie
I was not an inborn slave

Was not i
A queen?
In the isles of my father's blood
Tangled with in a crystal sheen
Did not my mother's veins feed me?

At times named
A baroness
A countess
An imperial Monarch.

Cushioned by her brawny muscles
Abed i reigned ,
Womb's three trimesters.
To have my single glimpse
Did not you cluster all the negatives
Out of x.ray films?

You bite her dust
You trim her words
You Clip her bones
You chop her flesh- laden zones
Of the one
Who was born once
A high-born Dame

My Slate Blue Disobedient Heart

I kept it million miles away from the noxious world
Enveloped it inch by inch no matter seethed my blood and burnt my veins
I thrust off the simmering and stifling ravenous air of disgust
The horizon unfolding shadows in olive, yellow and russet
Choking fumes of taunts i engulfed, rescued its dust from rust

Alas on that misfortune eve, it saw.....

Weak Whispers of withered palest rattling roses
And ivory stars dangling by the crimson moon its soft flushes
It fell prey to the falsehood and subterfuge of the Universe
Like a disobedient child my slate-blue heart
To market its fears among turf coloured seers came out unmasked...

The King of Spring you do not know

Even if the cones are not born green

Don't their hollow browns reflect the Dusk's moonbeam?

No matter the berries lost their Velvet

They wrap in December, the Sultry Soil in Blue Quilt

Remember?? You threw like a whore the dry orange rose

Look above, Its tiny  stem is knitted on the nest of Black Crows 

And then you churned the yellow treeless bunch of Leaves

The same bunch canopies a versatile creed of dormant seeds

You set your boat ashore when flakes turn to lake

This Purple Que Parasols the fish from snowy Pellets and hail

And your Chariot staggers to go near the gothic smoky Grove

But you Cant see, A rainbow wreath of peacock elves shield the roof   

But You do not Know...

But You do not Know...

Even In Autumn the Crippled and Murky shadows

Taller and Taller Grow

For in Autumn's World

The most Adverse is the most Prosperous...

(Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali)

My Heart has gone astray , it is no more on my roads

As we went hand in hand

Teeming with twinkles on the Desert's sand Tranquilly Oblivious; Felicity On thine lips used to burst Together We had breath In million layered oranges and reds Our two Knuckles in one Had many times ruled my deshaped Sun Heart! come back to thither soon My clock has circumbulating Moon Oh the Stormy Wind! be little gentle and Slow My Heart has gone Astray it is no more on my roads
Before i could encounter the autumn in sheep's wool Hissed, murmured and rustled Your waggish Witty Push How Affable you were my softest chamber... You left and then i learnt World has lasting Winter Here i stand in multitudes; Captored and Plundered With metallic snow my woods of blood are worst to rust My brain has lost its beeps I think no more divine Talk to me Heart! My nerves succumb Sing me Tender Lullaby's Rhyme Oh Stormy Wind be gentle and Slow My heart has gone astray it is no more on my roads

"Eclipsed Identity"

I went long on foreign miles

Crawled,

Jumped

Struggled with every Limb,

Tailored my skin,

Truncated my fins,

Waved off the wintery wings

I shape shifted....

Was i a flagrant liquid?

Was i a lucid Fluid?

Or a Molten Solid?

I knew not....

All of my Trails my polished paint escaped

My toil earned the roads

Which are only my mask's abode

Clueless and sun less i lie bare

Unrecognisable

 In my own battle

My mask stands the hero

and I.....

The chained Slave

'Not a saint, but a Half Human'

Capitalist's affluents dwarfed his hillocks of degrees
Seculars opened his veins to set him free
He bled, he oozed, his inch of skin paid the price
His neurons dribbled dreary dews , was he bruised? 
No , not yet he moved ahead
His pale termite infected bones and voiceless vocal chords
A million artists they called, like bees plunder the sweet
The more dark archs legnthened his noontide
More the Artist's serpent-tooth smile burnished wide
He preserved the niggardly genius in mediocrity 
And coppered coins on his breath to show sheer sincerity
Abondened from the Earth, a priest found his relics
Declared a saint, the script holder processed all his empty bricks
Today, i his daughter out of hunger, out of acute thirst
Is forced to lick from her own Father's blood, the holy grail

Life's Last Endeavor

Scrapes, scratches 

Wounds, bruises,
Clamps, Crutches,
Pricking Pangs
Punctured Cramps
Laying low
The Bronzite Man,
Mowing Down,
His Life's Hour-Glass.

Churning and Chopping,
Drop by Drop
His Blood ,
Membranes
Neurons,
Vessels and 
Clots.

Knocking down,
His waggish Ken.
Cloth less stands,
Now his entrails.
The Bones the flesh
Are territory less.
His Sun Tumbling
and Struggling,
To fight
Purple, Blue ,black
and their Kins.

But today
There are no earls
There rules no king
Death has its Dynasty
it will smite
It will strike
To keep Him Slow
Numb
Frozen
Tranquil and
lowly-browed

Ventilators,
Oxygen Masks,
Drips, Injectibles,
Sedative Pills,
To fill and lift,
Paucity of Pink.
The Electric Shocks
Clip-clopping
Kicking Up
The old man's heels

The Dying Man
Pushed, Pulled ,Jerked 
The blue lips,
And
Bee-infected-wounds.
He died not in Silence
But in noisy Struggle
As Life's Last Farewell
Asks for Absolute Endeavor