The Battlefield

The wicked is coming to dinner and the world is a battlefield,

No amount of human grace could alter the viewpoint of a terrorist,

There is no gain in winning over the saints with wicked overtures,

and the countrymen are ashamed of fighting the biggest enemy, the God undone

since the times of modern epoch, cowards fight over the issue of Gods,

and silence all the Judas among themselves,

There is an iota of shame in fighting for the Allah as a bygone chance,

of securing Him for the world, for whom the whole world is a mere illusion,

and pollute the heavens with ill- wrecked massacres, these so called messiahs as terrorists,

There is no reply for the mass murders or humane cause is obliterated and the men of God,

claim their right to run over men of different God and celebrate with murders as if Satan has

willed the last desire to wipe the humanity and in our dreams Satan has donned the robes of God as if enticing these misguided youth fall into the folds of death valley

To kill and hunt only the innocent men, so the men of Christ and the men of Satan have taken to the fight

Allah is only a  bystander watcher.

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The Spin off

The roulette tells all wrong

that it has unattended business to human needs

Do I need a roulette?

To salvage my pride as a Gamester I am attracted to pangs of conscience

Where is the God sitting and listening to ideal rant?

Is He in this world or within?

There I see a seed sprouting into a flower and all the beauty is enhanced

by thousands of  dregs and could you not stare at yourself in the mirror?

And say there is God eaten moth on the paper flower

I spin off a new idea to enchant girls to rhythms of ancient blues

they dance more than the rascals of the jungles with tigers running free

and Is there corruption of the soul?

our viewpoints might be different but the high talk is

there is Ivory tower spinning off ideas by galore

and the ones picking up could be you, the watcher of the stars in silence.

The White dog

The white dog is big boss of the road,

I ain’t got clue with my lover who is a better drifter than sheep,

I know her mood in a frenzy of sex,

Forgetting love not to wait with patience,

She aint got any red robe but a feminine hello to preach Christ,

I am not lucky with mime to tell her apart as mine,

I show her a ghetto and she keep running her white dog for votes,

Isn’t love is better on the beach,

keep running my hands through her bikni as fishes keep falling into the ocean

She stalks ghosts tripping on her flower scented paper,

sure I am out for her with a sunday ice-cream