Sheikha A. writes

When a laugh crinkles  my eyes to glint wild, know I hold you close. To nights dedicated to dreaming you into the pores of my being, I keep you prisoned. In between the layers of skin, of my face, I have you enshrined. A mausoleum of buried tears that surge out no more. The identity I now am, just one, is an independence of heart from its chest of safety’s escapism.

Iosias sepultus in mausoleum patrum (2 Chronicles 35:24) -- Salvador Dalí

("Josiah Buried in the Mausoleum of  His Fathers" -- His servants therefore took him out of that chariot, and put him in the second chariot that he had; and they brought him to Jerusalem, and he died, and was buried in one of the sepulchres of his fathers. And all Judah and Jerusalem mourned for Josiah. -- King James Bible)

Sheikha A. writes

Cobblestone Tears

Lampposts at the base loosen their steel

under the force of moss. The curtains
of my room are statues of fountains,
arching perceptively against the smoke
in the wind. Flowers pressed between bars
of iron gates, paper fans against luscious
velvet – this house has survived contrasts.
You will know my city for its beauty –
the nightly binging on shadows – voices
that pry into sprouting pods. Feet scale
towards an immeasurable sky. You will
never see a string of birds free like the kite.
Pigeons coiling their wings on unknown
rooftops, squabbles with domestic eagles.
April has arrived last night with a bang
of flies. Somewhere else, a neighbour
hadn’t switched off their lights.

 Where Paths Cross -- Joseph Vega

Sheikha A. writes

The night is out

from behind moonshine curtains

peering down upon my closed eyes

to crop out dreams and replace

with vivid reminders of us; remade

memories that I shred the mornings

after the night is out to torment

in retribution, tenfold, for daring

to forget this very night I used 

to inveigle you to me. Immured, 

my face has become a canvas

to the colours of your image

etched firmly over mine, 

a second face over my first

tracking trajectories

of our time as ‘together’.

-- Ikehata Yuichi

Sheikha A. writes

I write without a muse

that once leered at me

head to toe; perverse

in intention to own me,

consume me into rage

for adorning a name

not its own on pieces

of thoughts it’d gift me

in ornate boxes 

of torn inspirations.

I shut it in its box,

a night my freedom

seeking self, lured

my lover, my affair

to take over my pen

and rivet me alive

of words shrieking

brilliance. Instead

I spend my nights

opening each box

in hope for peace

from salvation

I expected to be

my saviour.  

The Exile Of Aestheticism -- Darwin Leon

Sheikha A. writes

Your memories adorn my eyes

as crow’s feet that come to work

only at nights; the nests are made

as they walk their feet with heavy

steps, perhaps tripping to balance,

causing deeper engraves leaving

behind footsteps while walking

further down the aisle of time.

They seem to focus on my eyes

as I wake to puffed melancholy

bearing down its weight of grief

beyond the stages of which I am

sitting patiently for this darkness

to close me into its embrace.

Eye with Crow's Feet -- Diego Manuel Ridriguez