THE CAVE BOYS RESCUE OF THAILAND

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The boys sing,
They cry in their
mother's voice,
agonistic poems on
The walls,
I am 13 little boys,

 eloped
in darkness
Exiled in
horror's superior,
 2 kilometers

Into a labyrinth of death
uncertainty
Curls deep into Rocky
And muddy
unpleasantnesses


the torrential
rains approached,
The pandas mimics
the air, the boys
Smile in tufts of
Agony

Thailand's snake
 fighters sing in
Tears, and the
monsoon
whispers death
 in
Patios.

Goosefooted men
Are weaving waves,
They'll be here

I am tears,
I can't wait to
Hear you are rescued

A navy laid his
life for you,
I beg the monsoon

......................................................................
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THE WHITE DOT

The Dot of White

Here, a voice of the sky chimes in tufts of illuminations, this genre of point that ignited the symphony of the universe, it's a language of the geoids, alien to Sheol and its derivatives, it unhitches the world from itself, this are the memoirs of our visionaries ,  reminisce!!! , here is how the universe knifed into our consciousness, this point of reminiscent is meant for a sage, a person of blissfulness, you are one!!  Its a point that gives you insight beyond the edges of the universe!! This point unites the world, it ignites peace, this kind of dot calls us to twirl our neck in the same directions,
Both friend, fiends and foes, one direction is a synonymous phrase to universal unity. its  that ancient Nirvana of light, that originates out of the blues in a be darkened Geography.

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Autobiography of a poet For the un-fiend-ly friends

He is lonely ,
he works along the lee shores
 , with slow lids and
Ashen pupils,
Turgid blood,
Sordid feet,
Numb brain,
Reminiscing over
his would be stay in the tomb.
cliffs of problem
made their way
out of his skin , inured to
Sorrow and
solitude intertwined
In a terrain parallel to bliss.
A sage said he should be
a poet writing
His Autobiography,

But I said no,

A poet said he is not a poet,
 a poem versified
 towards the onset of infinity's end,
An opera of ingenuity in
 folds exiled in the
land that time
 forgot,
A land where the cuteness of
 tentacles romances
the deadliness of
jellyfishes and
 the reef's white
And black tyrants ,
too cute
to slay one but
half a trillion.


From wolverines
to loons
to wildflowers
to thrushes
To ferns
to the coastal halos

To

The deceitful look of
The white
Caspian Tern

I think this is the onset of autobiography of a poem,
Autobiography of a poet.

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