Iman Sadikeen

A weaver of vivid dreams she be,
Spinning them with the yarn of despair,
Knots them she does with blind hopes,
Conjuring a life of warmth and care.
...

I sight thy smile, an enchanters smile
All portraits which grace thy digital sites!
I hear a surmise, one agonising surmise
One fair maiden and thee shall bind in wedlock!
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Drawing a circle around I
'Stay in bounds'told he,
'Cross not the line'
'We shall be mere fellows'added he.
...

Yonder, she walks, a mirthless soul
Limp and lifeless as a solitary corpse.
Darkness gathers with no silver about
Isolated she be, in an island of tears.
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Lush meadows along rippling streams pass I
When I be racing in one eternal track
This one I chose not but the dictating Fate!
Driven by his mistress Necessity indeed!
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A child of innocence he was in birth
neglected and left on his own
Lost in his world
Until the strange one with filth
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Found you were from the darkness
Bright as a new star from the blackness of space
A beautiful heart, hidden under all that evil masquerade
still it could not smother your nobler self
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In the pale moonlit darkness

Of souless night strolls one damsel
...

Weep for me not when I shall not be
And when I am gone beneath the earth,
And when I had let my final breath,
Wail not for me, Shed not even a tear for me.
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Tell will I the story of love
of two hearts that favored
each other in unison alike.
Accept they will not
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Confined and bound to traditions and norms.

Accustomed I be to one way of life,
...

Baring your canines
You stare at me
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From somewhere unknown
penetrated the rays of sunlight
the dreary and dark cell of hers
not darker than them, the ones
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Painted with lies are the world's eyes
Repellent are to her sight,
all that are good and right.
An Unruly house but this world is
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Fallen leaves, beneath a barren tree
Once flourished with blossoms and seeds
hope, does it have?
A season to grow, to bloom in prime?
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Set not much on a frail human heart
Fails it does more than needed for ones own part
Dallied he with a dame pouring love of flirtatious art
When the conquest be gained, his tone spelt only tart
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Mystic mountain peak
Enshrouded by jungle deep
A misty white shawl adorned
Concealing the glamour
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Slightering about walls this cent- footed being,
One hundred feet or tongues ponder I over its deeds
Smallish and concealing from keen sight of search
Its prominence so trivial at a glance had you seen
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A sign, a gesture received unknown
From whence I wonder
The mate I treasure
or the fiend with a conspiring mind
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My baby cries in her silvery eyes
Drop after drop, staining her pinky face
Every dropp that streams holding what?
I wish I did know to tell!
...