Unsoiled Image

Truth is curtained by
Films of smoke which
The blind can’t see.

Truth is a thorn
That pricks dead
Consciences awake
As living fires.

Truth is an explosive
That terminates
The good, bad and ugly.

Truth is a cupboard
Of many parts
Bitter sweet –a mixture.

Truth is a flower that
Withers too easily in
The harsh glare of the sun

Like a Bird, I Flee

Let it Be

Eclipse of Peace

Feverish Campaign


Desire (A poem from a dark room)


Spirit of Darkness

Ibrahim's Big Joke