Post-Mortem Victory
I saw peril at first
once my honey-tongued lover spilt,
“How lucky it is to walk
alongside six aristocrats
carry the banner of death for the throne.”
Later seven heroes are chosen
by the king, who forgot
his heirs are cursed by the gods,
“Of a lion fights
against a boar,”
as it is sculpted in the mind
of an acquaintance.
At first, it was the wrong sibling
who should ride the golden chariot.
The other sibling is exiled,
“I went to a city,
then picked a fight against
a prince,” bound by a promise
of might and triumph.
A dominion is being reminded,
“Show us where
the spring was,” the maid
leaves her baby, suddenly dead
of venom. The snake’s head
decapitated, hence it is named—
The disaster unfolds.
One by one from the seven of us,
is dying swallowed by sins and dirt.
“Not even The King of The Gods
can stop me,” although
he is falling to his death, losing blood
dying by poison, and other deaths.
We let our children
bet with their own tragedies
while our daughters,
“How difficult it was
burying our own brothers,” and our efforts are won by our grandchildren.
Paralegal
Mortal ways to testify are peculiar:
Innocence until proven guilty
on pale skins settling
on four-seasoned land.
Gavel knockers are the keyholders
of torture chambers and elders
among gods and man.
Only this king was allowed to build the walls!
Cold is not crippling enough
on the tip of the delicate scale of deeds.
The king is locked by grids
of five-sided stories.
From him the bubbling sea,
beside hulls and anchors,
living with lances and sails
dead by the boiling ocean.
Casted out at first due to the balance
how equal, law becomes
enforced and enlightened.
Befriending the desert inhabitants
along with yellow-skinned heroes.
Truly, it was a page at first
of commerce and justice business the metrics are just deliberately stiff.
Tripped
The lattices are shaking
by the tunes of her own bad karma
born out of her failure
to stop the kidnapping
Songs and dances
swerve and show
sad stories born
out of her womb of history
Later the damned sailors
kiss their children
and end up at the depth of burrows.
Mirrors and Echoes
Teach me how to ignore voices
in my head and attempts
to satisfy my curiosity;
I follow blindly
because the cord uprooted
till it won’t sing.
And you, lay on the pool’s surface
to look at yourself and die,
mentioned in the lost poems;
our grave is visited
by twined couples
of their stars. The hums of lyre
strung and releasing arrows
of golden, and the chirps of turtle
swoop, repeatedly.
Repeatedly