You’re right. When you murmur in the depths of your silent exhales, I might as well be a burden. A weight too heavy for the animate to sustain, as if I am no more than the struggle to be inanimate. I remember glorifying death when I was a youth; there is freedom in death and […]Read More Promise.
It fluttered through the frenzy, An incantation of earnesty. Miles apart it stood, Whole and rattled, As I floated among the earthen layers, And the winter sun, Alas, losing its enmity to me. To what wonder it rested, The dead below us and the dying among us. As if light could penetrate us all, Like […]Read More The Gleam in Our Eyes.
The Doors of Eden. To what wonder is it, As I dwell among the blues. Like an inconsequential shred of disbelief, For even death remains a recompense, For the incessant vice of a lost breath. I can’t seem to fathom the unfaltering sagacity, That lies like an outcast in this Vale of Tears. I can’t […]Read More “The Doors of Eden.” by Imaan Siddiq
It isn’t just intuition to always listen to the silence encompassing as you stand at the pivot of staggering words and a pretension towards the innumerable words of wisdom that lay hanging in the Land of Eden. There isn’t anything without a consequence nor an objective without the art of subjectivity as personalities metamorphose with […]Read More Words of Sagacity.
A Comforting Death. I wonder what’s left for me to write. What words have yet been unsaid by my soiled eyes, Or what murmurs have yet gone unnoticed, Among the chatter in the skull. And the incessant urge of plunging into demise. It crumples me down, The inconsistency of the ravishing winds, And the […]Read More A Comforting Death.
I Wonder. I wonder. What secrets lie dormant in the once breathing body. What passions flowed unhindered through the agile brain, An uncovered utopia or a fearless ambition? An image flashes by. One which is daunting, unforgiving and pierces through the inanimate. An ancient revival of contemplation, In the words you used to read, And […]Read More “I Wonder.” by Imaan Siddiq
It all goes by us in less than a flurry. A company of iotas passing by in the ravishing second. It didn’t take a second chance or a fleeting look back at that which we cherish. It all faded out, converged, diverged, separated and blacked out in front of us like the curtain that separates […]Read More The Silence Prevailing the Act.
Hush Little Bird… Hush little bird, Hush back home. It isn’t the time for a Light of Eden, Or a morning of galore. It is this epitome of petrification, That keeps me from giving you flight From this safe haven, a warm home. It is all a matter of a few seconds, In which […]Read More “Hush Little Bird…” by Imaan Siddiq
A Still Silence. Why does the beauty lie behind the curse? This curse of inadequacy, of death. This whiteness that destroys the dark, Inside of you and me. For we aren’t just colours, We are the absence of colours. The presence of intensity of sentiment. As I bow down to my eternal end, To […]Read More “A Still Silence.” by Imaan Siddiq
The Crimson Sky The shedding of crimson, Into the vessel of existence. Lieu the vessel of inconsequential cosmic dust, Calling out to the breathing herd. The crimson sky, Like the cloth of majestic imperialism. The way and the feel of the sturdy veins, On the crimson withered autumn leaf, That ran unhindered, inescapable. […]Read More “The Crimson Sky” by Imaan Siddiq