Treasure Island

Naveed Akram

(15 December 1973 / London, England)

Spindles


I want to speak to all those willing to speak,
My treatment is to be apologized and woken,
Spindles toward the head shall be windows,
Their ever presence shakes me within.

The wood splintered, the cracks bestowing luxury,
We varnished the planet and all those surrounding,
With headlong pursuit of danger that wreathed havoc
Heavy on the door of the soul, a peak had been its apogee.

The apex of deceit had arrived, from within and outwardly,
Like the heart of strokes and golfing tragedy,
The mottled wood felt huge and hollow,
Chewing on it was a hidden endeavor.

Pumpkins told what to speak, fruit of the world,
A dining of old had reached the hearts of a monument,
Surpassing time and nauseated the spirits,
Time had been sinister to speak, to write.

Submitted: Monday, March 25, 2013
Edited: Monday, March 25, 2013
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