Category Archives: psyche

Forest through the trees

Image result for Enchanted Forest Art

Schism, the devourment,

Clarity of mind beyond the firmament,

the edge of existing,

beyond resisting

struck between two places,

a world found between spaces,

another plane of being,

way of seeing,

somehow freeing,

confines release,

as we retrieve,

fact from fiction,

storybook tales allegorical, in relation,

to these codes unlocked,

practiced daily as sure as the clock,

ticks so we can perceive,

the forest through the trees.

Faatima

Xx

 

 

 

No more colours

Just like an empty Sunday,

We wish away,

The barren moments taking form and shape,

Playing tricks in the light, painting a maze,

a blurry haze,

In between new ideas,

There lie dormant fears,

Colours seep,

From view and we are knee deep,

Wading through layers,

Finding our own way out,

So don’t tell me to smile,

Hold back or live in denial

Till I am ready, and have walked this mile.

Till every stain has been washed away,

and nothing remains.

Faatima

 

 

 

Wake up

Image result for wake up art

I am past the days of delusions,

excuses, backed up with fairly good reasons,

throwing force-fields at enemies,

doubts fail to cloud my mind this time around.

No more settling for less,

no more lack of self respect,

like Neptune weaves a fate,

shaped by tendencies to escape

from which one day we’ll be forced to awake.

The realm of fantasy,

an alternate reality,

holds us back,

when real life seems to lack,

but clear space inside your brain,

and let go of the chain,

of conditioned thoughts,

lies you may have bought,

Awakening to who you really are,

and following your heart

slaying the dragon,

and steering clear of the bandwagon,

breeding sheep,

who were once in deep,

a planet of amnesia, still asleep,

eyes opening from slumber as we keep,

persistently planting seeds

intuition is the key out,

and this time there is no turning around.

 

 

Stay in your lane

Image result for the tree of life

Without exception,

Waking moments tainted by trappings,

Make of it what you will,

Molding like clay,

stories day by day,

An unending sequence with tracks deeply ingrained,

As we’re trained to dance with disdain,

Stay in your lane,

Egg-shells planted

the contrast and polarity is granted,

a given,

yet the mirror always remains slightly slanted,

upon the wall,

our down-fall.

Faatima

 

 

Rivers gushing beneath

One at a time,

the ripples melt into the stream illuminated by the sunshine,

the calm of the water looks like a goldmine,

colours and shades to watch as we sip fine wine,

the stasis not too different from the verses of a rhyme,

as the story unfolds line by line,

the story of the hill that we climb,

layers undressed,

as we reach the crest

so very steep,

though tempted as I was to peek,

I did not turn back to look at the river beneath,

the water is not shallow instead it is murky, deep,

…and gushing to the extreme,

quite unlike the setting of peace,

described so well, now my visual receptors have been released,

from that particular spiral, put it safely to sleep.

Faatima

 

 

Shade

Image result for oroborous

Lost somewhere in translation,

crowds absorb any meaning and kill patience,

worse than most,

a subjective stance brought on by the host,

a predatory conscience,

talking nothing but nonsense,

till lines are drawn,

between each and every source,

till it no longer matters,

the mind’s chit-chatter,

observed through a lense unaffected by shame,

although in this game they have infiltrated our mind-frame,

the key will open this door,

and the snake eats its tail no more,

Faatima

 

Preservation

Instinct reigns in,

as moments keep passing,

the ships fly mile-high,

up in the sky,

reaching places,

these races,

a mass of faces,

there is no stasis,

in the zone,

with something to resist and something to condone,

as we roam,

objectives rendering us alone,

in the circus show

to and fro,

empty spaces between us hollow.

Swayed by the winds of change that blow,

so that preservation is futile, the seeds have already been sown,

and grown,

the first one to cast the stone,

will reap the fruits of the harvest that is to come,

the  orange and red season

we have all but anticipated,

with bated breath,

when wheat becomes bread,

we have already made our beds,

to lie in,

as the veils are thinning,

and the glasses are over brimming,

no turning back these miles,

have been walked and all the while,

the truth remains that preservation is futile,

Faatima