ARTISTIC TRIBE

They Zig, You Zag When they meander in synchrony’s embrace, You traverse the labyrinth of boundless space. While their steps align in a scripted parade, You forge a path where shadows cascade. When they capitulate to comfort’s decree, You defy the tides, unshackled and free. Amidst the cacophony of acquiescent tone, You etch symphonies in the marrow of bone. Their trajectory, banal, a linear refrain, Yours, an odyssey through tempest and terrain. With mettle unmarred by the weight of scorn, You ascend where the audacious are born. When they extol the virtues of trodden ground, You uncover vistas where none have been found. And while their gaze remains fettered, confined, You wield the cosmos as the canvas of mind. So, let their zig mark the rhythm of the tame; Your zag ignites the pyre of your name. For where conformity seeks to reign supreme, You are the architect of an unbridled dream.

Empty Brilliance An opulent glow, yet hollow and frail, A gilded crown, but devoid of the trail. Lustrous mirage in the desert of mind, A beacon that leads yet fails to bind. The shroud of allure, delicate, worn, Conceals the void where essence is torn. Vibrance profound, yet utterly bare, A labyrinth's maze that leads to nowhere. Resplendent in form, but devoid of weight, The gloss of success—so exquisite, so late. It hums in the silence, soft and refined, But never resounds, never realigns. It dances like pearls in a lover’s soft hand, But fades with a touch, like castles of sand. Gilded with praise, adorned in the best, But fractured within, no substance to invest. A cadence that strikes but fails to resound, A myth in the making that never is found. The brilliance, they say, is born of the mind, Yet in absence of truth, what’s left behind?

The Play of Shadows and Time Shadows elongate and then recede, A silent waltz to light’s decreed. They prowl at dawn, in dusk dissolve, A paradox they can’t resolve. Like time, they jest, they feint, they flee, Ethereal threads of brevity. Forever mutable, never confined, Ephemeral whispers of time’s design.

My Silly Jokes and Her Anger My tongue, a foolish jester’s play, Flings jokes that wander, far astray. Each word a spark, a flame unplanned, Igniting tempests in her hand. Her brows a storm, her eyes a blaze, My laughter caught in fiery haze. The walls now echo her sharp retorts, While I retreat to safer ports. But oh, the charm of her furrowed brow, A masterpiece of anger now. Her fury dances, wild and free, A tempest born because of me. Yet when the storm begins to fade, Her laughter slips through cracks I’ve made. And in her smile, I find my way, To jest again another day.

Forbidden Desires Why is the best fruit always forbidden? The taste of love often feels hidden. We reach for what we should release, Holding on to fragments that shatter peace. Is it the thrill of what we can’t contain, The hope that love will bloom again? We crave the sweetness, ignore the sting, Returning to gardens of endless longing. And why does love-making mend, then blur, The truths we promised would endure? In moments of fire, the wounds recede, But clarity drowns in desire’s need. Is it love, or a fleeting reprieve, A fragile bridge we want to believe? The body consoles what the mind disputes, And clouds our vision with forbidden fruits.

Twilight in My Soul The sun sinks low, a heavy chest, Its glow dissolves, a flame at rest. The sky flushes like a secret dream, Yet quietness flows, a muted stream. Walls undone, ambitions raw, A heart like ruins no one saw. Desires stretch where shadows curl, Reaching for light in a dusky whirl. The breeze murmurs, a tender vow, "Will solace find you here and now?" Like the sun, I flare, then wane, Chasing warmth in a fleeting plane. But twilight holds a sacred thread, A golden whisper where fears have fled. For even in this tender ache, A rising dawn my soul will wake.